Spin me a Tale
by Wolf Within
Summary: Rumplestiltskin; also known as Mr Gold, the imp, the beast, the crocodile, the Dark One, cripple, spinner, husband, coward, father, lost boy. As Rumple lies in stasis his heart becomes a blank page. It is up to the residents of Storybrooke to retrieve, witness and record his memories if they are to have any hope of awakening the one man who can understand the Dark Swan.
1. Operation Dart-Frog

_**Spin me a Tale**_

 **Rumplestiltskin; also known as Mr Gold, the imp, the beast, the crocodile, the Dark One, cripple, spinner, husband, coward, father, lost boy. As Rumple lies in stasis his heart becomes a blank page. It is up to the residents of Storybrooke to retrieve, witness and record his memories if they are to have any hope of awakening the one man who can understand the Dark Swan, and clip her chaotic wings. But as each takes a turn, they are thrust not only into an unfamiliar time and place, but into a personal grappling with their own identity as heroes and bystanders.**

 ** _Warnings:_ Rating may increase. Mentions of violence and rape/non-con occur later, and chapters will be appropriately marked. Season Five AU. **

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time, much as I'd love to!**_

* * *

 **Operation Dart-Frog**

' _Purest evil, blackest bloom (A), / darkness, too, can find its doom [tomb?] (A). / Never dying, but [[_ _estranged]]_ _contained (B), / bound inside the falcon's_ _[talon's?]_ _chamber (C). / Shorn of anger, thornless [sic] danger (C), / there forever to remain' (B)._

Belle clicked her ballpoint pen impatiently, and circled the last word of each alternative line. _Doom. Chamber. Remain._ Sighing, she returned to the keyboard of the old library computer, clunking the letters in carefully.

'F-a-l-c-o-n* c-h-a-m-b-e-r'

She scanned the search results wearily. _Real estate agents in London, solicitor services in New York, various raptor mews. No magic, no myths. Still nothing of use._

Her notebook was covered in delineations and re-phrasings, library index numbers and scrawled out questions. She'd started with the basics, jotting down the simple definition of each word, in case there was something obvious connecting them.

 _Falcon: ˈfɔː(l)k(ə)n,ˈfɒlk(ə)n/ -_ _noun_ _\- a diurnal bird of prey with long pointed wings and a notched beak, typically catching prey by diving on it from above._

When that heralded no success, she experimented with rhymes and poetry structure. If she was correct in separating the stanza into six lines then it was a sestet, with the rhyming pattern AABCCB. But she'd found nothing to indicate that the metre of a spell affected what it did.

"I don't even know if I remembered the words correctly," she murmured. _And one wrong word could throw everything off._

With a soft groan she lowered her head into her hands, thinking. Last night she'd fallen asleep, surrounded by books, her head leaning against shelf 146: Natural History. The same shelf that he'd stood by just after giving her the keys to the library that day. When he'd confessed that she had been right: he was a coward. And then he'd—

The library door creaked open.

"Uh, sorry we're close—" she blinked, looking up, "Oh. Hi Henry"

"Hey Belle"

The lad didn't look so good—dark circles ringing his eyes, fatigued expression— _he must be getting about the same amount of sleep as I am._

"Can I—can I help you?" she asked, slightly puzzled.

With all his usual, easy familiarity Henry pushed himself up to sit on the counter of the circulation desk. He smiled slightly when he caught sight of her calculations.

"You're . . . trying to figure out the Apprentice's spell?" he tilted his head, reading, "Why the Sorcerer's hat couldn't contain the darkness?"

"Uh, not exactly," Belle started to gather her papers more neatly, "I'm trying to understand what happened to Rumple's heart" she closed the cover of her notebook.

"You mean after all the darkness was sucked out of it? It went all white and glowing, then the Apprentice put it back inside him"

Belle hesitated. _Perhaps it would be useful to get a second opinion._ Putting down her pen, she joined Henry, pushing herself up to sit on the other side of the counter, her legs resting on the receptionist's chair below. She looked down at her hands, fingers fidgeting with a bookmark she'd plucked from the stationary pot.

"I think there's more to it than that," she confided, glancing across at her— _grandson? Friend?_

Henry looked back at her expectantly. Confidently. The librarian straightened slightly and took a breath.

"Well, when the Apprentice cast his spell, the darkness imbued in Rumple's heart did enter the hat. But so did something else. Even then, right at the end, there was still that tiny speck of red. His humanity," she added, her voice softening, "his ability to love". _A flicker of light in an ocean of darkness._

The young boy nodded in understanding, "So, you're trying to work out where that went?"

"I am," she nodded, "After that night I spent every waking moment sitting in a chair at the hospital, but it's been three days and nothing's changed. Yesterday evening I realised that I wasn't really _doing_ anything. Not really—not to help. If his humanity stayed sealed in that hat, I need to figure out a way to free it: to wake him up"

Henry bit his lip, "I thought you two weren't . . . After you ban—uh, after Mr. Gold left Storybrooke . . ." he trailed off.

Belle heaved a light sigh. "We're not. But I—I would like to talk to him. We didn't really get any chance to discuss things before. Everything happened so quickly," _I didn't give him the chance. At the town line, I told him it was my turn to talk._ "And . . . just before the Apprentice took his heart, Rumple said something that he'd said once before, years ago, and I guess it makes me want to know what he was thinking".

A moment passed.

Henry looked across at his perhaps-grandmother, his hands in his coat pockets, "And if that speck of red isn't in the hat? If you can't find his humanity?"

"Then I suppose I'll have to find another way to wake him from the preservation spell," she replied glumly, setting the bookmark down.

"We," Henry corrected. Belle tilted her head, her gaze questioning, and he continued, " _We'll_ have to find another way to wake him"

"You—you want to help _me_? Help Rumple?" her blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Henry jumped lightly down from the counter, and turned to face her.

His voice held a thread of guilt, "I came here because I wanted to know if _you_ wanted to help him. I know he's done some pretty bad stuff to you as well as the others, so I just wanted to check where you stood, I guess, before I asked you"

"Huh," Belle slid off the counter, digesting his words carefully, "Asked me what?"

"If you'll take part in Operation Dart-Frog"

* * *

It had taken Belle less than a minute to shut down the computer and lock the library doors—after all, there was no need to tidy up properly. She was keeping the facility out of use to the general public this week, popping up her little handwritten ' _Town Emergency_ 'note in the window with her phone number. She tried not to think about how frequently that poor, battered sign had been in use since she'd made it. As she and Henry made their way along the road to Granny's, he began to fill her in.

"So after my Mom took on the darkness and disappeared, she left the dagger behind. Hook tried to summon her, but it didn't work—Mom said it's because she isn't in our world, so it's like she can't hear him calling"

"Right," Belle nodded, trying rapidly to puzzle out which of his mothers Henry was referring to in any given moment; it seemed to make sense to him at least, which was a miracle in itself, "Go on"

"Since then Mom and Robin have been looking through all the spell books in her vault, and Gramps and Grandma Snow have been talking with Leroy and the others, and working at the Apprentice's house to try to figure out a way to open a portal to take them to my Mom. And Hook and I have been going through items in the shop to see if anything has a link to Camelot or Merlin"

"Hook," Belle said tightly, failing to hide her distaste. _Of all the people Rumple wouldn't want to find rifling through his shop, the pirate was surely chalked up as number one._ Henry seemed not to notice her aversion.

"Yeah, he's been alive for nearly as long as Mr. Gold has, and spent plenty of it travelling across different lands, so he's pretty good at recognising insignia and stuff"

"So what do you want me for?" the librarian wrapped her unbuttoned coat more closely about her, folding her arms, "And what was it you were saying about a frog?"

"I think we're going in the wrong direction. No-one seems to be thinking about what we're going to do when we _get_ to Camelot, or when we _get_ to my Mom"

He pushed open the door to the diner, and Belle followed him in. She was surprised to find herself face to face with a room full of heroes. _And a pirate_. Charming and Snow were eying her wordlessly, Leroy seemed pleased to see her; Regina and Robin were mid-conversation at one of the booths, Hook was sitting at the bar, and Granny was wiping down glasses. Ruby came out of the kitchen and, on catching sight of her friend, flashed her a quick smile.

 _Last time I came in here it was to ask for help—the Dark One was about to consume Rumple once and for all. And after the darkness burst free, not one of them came back. Not to check on me, not to help me move Rumple. One word from Emma and the others had rushed to make the Apprentice comfortable. But for the unconscious body of the actual owner of the shop, a man they've known for years? Not even a second glance. I had to call an ambulance._

"What am I doing here, Henry?" Belle asked curtly.

"I was about to ask the same thing" Regina replied with a slight sneer, "We're supposed to be finding Emma, not librarians". But a glance from Robin and a slight squeeze of the hand left her trail of thought there. Belle subconsciously rested a hand over her heart as she watched the Mayor.

"I know," Henry replied, holding out his hands as if to pause them all from barbing each other for a second, "But we're doing it wrong"

Snow shifted restlessly, and it didn't take Belle long to recognise that the former princess looked the worst of all of them.

Before he could be interrupted Henry ploughed onwards, "Who is the only living ex-Dark One? Who is the only one among us who we have reason to believe has travelled to Camelot—who may have even met Merlin himself? Who is the only one who _knows_ how the darkness works, and what happens immediately after you take it on? Perhaps even, where you go? Mr. Go—"

"Rumplestiltskin is _nothing_ like her," Snow interrupted, "My daughter is good—"

"Because you forced her to be" Regina retorted, "And now she's totally unprepared for _any_ kind of darkness, let alone _the_ darkness"

"That's not fair," Charming interjected, "We were told—"

 _Crash._ A glass tumbler shattered against the wall, nearly knocking the dart-board from its nail. It took a moment for Belle to trace its flight back to a now-clenched fist, cased in black leather. The smell of rum coiled in the air.

"Let the boy finish" Hook growled.

In the guilty silence that followed, Henry pushed his plan harder, "We need to find a way to wake up Mr. Gold as soon as we can. Otherwise, we're just stabbing in the dark," he insisted, trying not to linger on the accidental pun, "We've spent three days looking for clues to help us get to locations, and we don't even have a plan for when we get there. You're all strong people," he pleaded, looking around the room, "but I think we need to be smart too—plan ahead like Mr. Gold always did, otherwise we might make things worse," he took a deep breath, "I want to find my Mom. But when I do, I want to be able to help her"

Charming nodded, feeling a warm surge of pride for how naturally Henry seemed to have taken to acting the hero—gathering the community, leading them together with a common purpose, a powerful speech. A few others in the room gave their own nods of consent—Leroy and Robin seemed convinced—and Henry allowed himself a grin.

"So this . . . this is Operation Dart-Frog?" Belle said slowly from behind him. Ruby had laid out an iced tea on the counter for her, and she took it with a grateful glance. Granny slid a mug of cinnamon-covered hot chocolate over to Henry. He tried to ignore the pang he felt when he saw it. _There should be two._

"Yep. Or rather, Operation Golden Poison Dart-Frog. The Phyllobates terribilis species is said to be the world's most poisonous vertebrate. But I reckoned Dart-Frog was catchier. And I thought it was appropriate 'cause, you know. Mr. Gold," Henry slid onto a stool, and scooped up a dollop of cream with his finger.

"Huh, better than Operation Golden Labrador," Charming murmured, standing alone, arms-folded in the centre of the diner, while Belle shook her head admiringly, appreciative of a fellow bookworm. _He thinks we can do it. He believes we can bring back Rumple._

"You're pretty smart for your age Henry," Leroy noted, raising a finger to ask for a refill. Charming glanced down, but Snow must have slipped off to the bathroom.

"I was the only kid in my classes getting older for five years. It wasn't all that hard to get ahead and read outside the curriculum," he shrugged his coat off.

"Henry"

Looking up from his cocoa, the boy found Regina beside him, her eyes filled with worry and ringed with exhaustion.

"Hey Mom"

"Henry, listen," she began, resting a hand on his shoulder, "I know you want to help find Emma. We all do, and we're all trying our best. But one thing is certain—the Dark One is immortal, which means that Emma is alive. Alive and waiting for us somewhere. But Gold doesn't have that going for him anymore. There's no telling when or if he'll _ever_ wake up, and if—" she shot a warning glance at Belle, who had moved forward and was scowling back at her, " _if_ he does, he won't have any magic—any power to—"

The librarian cut her off, " _Knowledge_ is power. Rumple was the Dark One for three centuries—"

"Yeah," the Mayor shot back, "and he is now a mortal man over three hundred years old, who's lost his favourite crutch and whose main concern will probably be rheumatism, _if_ he wakes up from his coma". Hands on her hips, Regina squared her shoulders and gave a short bark of laughter, "How long do you think _that_ will last? Before, no-one in Storybrooke could match him in power, now, heaven knows, no practitioner of magic here can match him in being elderly"

"Actually," a low voice spoke from behind them, "that's not true, sister". Leroy turned to look at Regina, raising his hands as if it were obvious, "Fairies?"

"Mother Superior," Charming breathed, "Her power is an ancient one. She might know something"

Regina frowned, "Has anyone even seen Blue since Isaac and Gold created their little topsy-turvy land? Was she in that version?"

"I didn't have the time to read the whole book," Henry admitted, scalding his tongue as he knocked back the dregs of his hot chocolate. He grabbed his coat, "But I can guess where we might find her"

Charming looked around for Snow, his tone apologetic, "We left Neal with Ashley"

"Don't worry about it," Henry replied, flashing a flippant smile, "I'd like the driving practice"

Seeing the colour drain from the prince's face, Belle chipped in quickly, "I'll go with him. I want to hear what Mother Superior has to say"

"Take my keys," Regina insisted. She rolled her eyes at Charming's incredulity, "I cast a protection spell on the car"

Across the room Killian cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. "Well, this has been a real riot," the pirate stood up, "But I'm sorry lad: my money's not on the crocodile. I'll be heading back to the shop"

As he made to swing from the stool, a hand reached out and grabbed his hook, pinning his arm against the counter.

Granny's eyes were fierce, "But before you do that, you're going to take this dustpan and brush and clean up the glass you broke. This ain't some brigand's tavern" she growled.

Killian freed his arm and waved it at her, "Hook!"

She waved the brush back, "Apathetic!"

Leaving them to bicker, Belle and the boy slipped out of the diner.

* * *

Henry waited, trying not to rap his fingers impatiently on the banister of the stairs, as Belle took a series of deep breaths. _The sooner we can wake up Mr. Gold, the sooner we find a way to bring Mom back—to defeat the darkness. And the sooner everything gets back to normal—or as normal as it can get around here._

"Ah, come on Belle—I didn't drive _that_ badly"

"No, no. You were great," the librarian replied, wincing.

"May I help you?" a slight young woman with auburn hair had appeared at the door of the covenant, a long blue scarf trailing from her neck.

"Oh, Sister Astrid," Belle straightened up, still a little nauseous, "We were hoping to have a word with Blue"

The nun smiled at them, hesitant, "She-she's in the gardens, but she doesn't always like having vi—"

"Thanks Astrid!" Henry was already bounding down the steps, calling a thank you over his shoulder, so, with an apologetic smile to the fairy, Belle followed him, a hand on her stomach.

They found Mother Superior tending to a briar of roses growing beside a stone fountain, which was surrounded by perfectly symmetrical square hedges. Pruning the dying heads and trimming back the thorns, the nun must have heard them coming, for she spoke without turning from her task.

"And what brings you two to the gardens of the Sisters of Saint Meissa? Gardening here is a meditative task, and not one usually disturbed," her voice was light, airy, but Belle thought she could sense the edge of steel beneath it.

"Uh, we, well we're sorry for disturbing you, Mother," she began, "It's just that we wanted to ask for the advice of someone who has been around for a bit . . . longer. About something magical?"

The Abbess continued pruning.

"Do you know what happened after I undid Isaac's story?" Henry asked, "What the Apprentice tried to do with the darkness?"

"Of course," she turned with a small smile, pruning shears glinting in the light, "And now you both wish to find Miss Swan. Well, I'm afraid it's beyond even my power to locate the Dark On—"

"That's not what we want," Henry interjected, "I mean, it is, but that's not what we came here to ask. We want to know how to wake up Mr. Gold"

Mother Superior stared at him for a second, her voice incredulous, "You wish to wake up Rumplestiltskin, the instigator of the curse which trapped us all here? The imp who brought more destruction and evil to the Enchanted Forest than the combined efforts of all other practitioners of magic?" she continued, ignoring Belle, who was shaking her head silently, eyes wide, "You wish to revive the darkest sorcerer the world has ever suffered to experience? The very embodiment of deceit, cruelty and manipulation?"

"Wh-what?" Belle spluttered, "How can you say that? He had the darkness in him, just like Emma does now—he fought against it, tried to be a good man—"

"To you, perhaps, for a time. But have no doubt, dear girl, that you were just another pawn in the game. Indeed, it seems almost as if you two were his favourite victims" the nun's words were calm, absent of emotion, "Even here, even without magic for 28 years he was a tyrant, impoverishing those who could not meet his demands. Storybrooke, and all the realms beyond it, are safer for him being unable to wake"

"Unable? What do you mean _unable_? The Apprentice said if the strength was there—"

"And the Apprentice also said that the Sorcerer's hat could contain the darkness, did he not?" Blue's eyes flashed with a cold fire, "Never trust the work of someone still in his lessons". She turned to leave, gathering her skirts.

Belle strode forward, clasping the nun's elbow desperately, "But what about his humanity? The speck of red that—"

"—has long since been consumed by the darkness, if it was ever there," Blue delicately lifted her hand and removed Belle's grasp, her grip firm and matronly, "Try John 3:19-20, if you can only believe what you read in books. Any dream of goodness you saw in that creature is just that—a dream," she stepped away from them.

"So you truly believe that his humanity is gone?" Belle pushed, "I thought perhaps—with a white heart . . ."

Mother Superior paused, her back to them and her voice barely audible, "White, you say?"

Henry and Belle exchanged a glance.

"Yeah, and sort of glowing," the boy answered.

Mother Superior turned to face them, a small smile growing on her lips, "Then we have nothing to fear"

Belle fidgeted, her eyes wide and confused.

The Abbess smoothed her skirts, and tucked a loose strand of hair back into her bun, before continuing, "If his heart is white, then the imp Rumplestiltskinis no more—he's a blank slate, a clean page, and without his memories, without his dark and twisted little pieces of identity, he will never wake," she spread her hands, eyeing the shocked faces of the librarian and the boy, "To put it in a way you'd both understand: his book is empty"

Belle exhaled sharply, as if she'd been dealt a blow to the stomach. Her mind racked over the events of the last few days. _If he can't remember, maybe that means . . . it would have worked._ The sing-song speeches and solemn statements in her head began to blur. _It's forever, dearie. He will never wake. Never. Forever._ Henry stared at the nun as she turned once more to leave, his heart sinking.

"Oh, and which of my novices welcomed you, may I ask?"

"I don't remember" Henry answered firmly. A moment passed.

The nun nodded, "Good day"

The sun appeared from behind a cloud, and bathed the garden in a gentle light. Belle seated herself on the edge of the water fountain, placing her palms against the cool stone. Henry sat down to her right, thinking hard and trying to come up with a positive. It was several minutes before he spoke.

"At least we know more about what happened to Mr. Gold's heart"

She shook her head, "No . . . no, I refuse to believe that this is it; that we should just give up hope. If the good in him—if our love was just a dream . . ." _Then I've spent far too many years slumbering instead of living._

"Don't put it away," a gentle hand rested on top of Belle's and a voice spoke to her left.

"Astrid," Belle hadn't noticed the slight young woman approach, let alone join her in perching on the edge of the fountain, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh," the fairy replied, with a little giggle, "I live here. I'm a nun" she pointed to her habit.

"Yes," Belle replied with a sad smile, "I know"

"Thanks for not ratting me out," the novice said quietly to Henry, peering round Belle's back, "I don't tend to do much right around here"

"As a nun, or as a fairy?" Henry asked curiously.

The smile faded from Astrid's eyes, and she bit her lip. "Both," she looked down at her hands, realised one was still on Belle's and took it back into her own lap, "but I heard you talking"

"Ah, yes," Belle said, her shoulders sagging slightly, "Looks like Operation Dart-Frog has hit a bit of a road-block"

Astrid's brows furrowed, but she shook the confusion off with a toss of her head, "Well, I think I might know of something that can help"

She reached into her habit and withdrew a small, transparent stone, which she placed in Belle's open palm. The librarian's mouth dropped open, and she raised the offering carefully to the light.

Astrid smiled, "It's a—"

"A memory stone," Belle breathed, "Yes, I know. I was given one once before. But how did you—W-what are you saying?"

The novice nodded towards the stone, "This one's empty. Normally there's a memory inside, and you have to return to the place in which the memory was first experienced, boil the stone and drink the water to remember"

 _Or make it into tea. I guess that was a personal touch._ "But how could this help Rumple? I'm afraid if what Blue said is true, he hasn't lost one memory—he's lost all of them. And he's been so many places, I don't think I could ever brew enough tea, even with an unlimited supply of magic beans and all the time in the world. I wouldn't know where to start"

"That's the thing. With an empty one like this, if you use an item that connects you and the, uh, memory-loser, you can walk among their memories yourself. Then when you wake up, well, I'm afraid that's the tricky part. You need to get the author to write it all down, exactly as you saw it. From what I've heard Isaac isn't the most congenial of fellows, but if he's safe in the Sheriff's jail, you might be able to convince him to help," she smiled, slightly anxious for their reactions.

Henry's face broke into a smile, and he leapt up from the fountain, "But we don't even need Isaac: I'm the author. I can do it—Belle, I can write it all down!" the librarian jumped up to join him, "We'll get one of those blank books from the Sorcerer's house and then I . . ." he trailed off suddenly, and he reached into the inside pocket of his coat. He drew out two halves of an old-fashioned pen.

"What's that?" Belle asked, the hope faltering in her blue eyes.

"The Author's pen," he replied, regret swirling in his chest. _I was an idiot to snap this thing in half. It may have been tempting to write the stories as I wanted them to go, but I still need to be able to record everything._ His heart wrenched as he saw Belle's face fall—she was the only one who'd really shown any enthusiasm for Operation Dart-Frog, and now he was the one causing obstacles for it—for her happy ending, whatever that was. _Being with Grandpa Gold, having closure enough to move on—whatever, I can't let her down now. And, even more than that, my Mom needs me. This is our best shot._ "It's OK," he forced a smile, "I'll start collecting Mr. Gold's memories, and I'll write them down in a normal book for now, and you can research how to fix the pen. Does that—"

He stopped short as voices rose across the gardens, "Astrid? Astrid!"

The fairy jumped up in a flutter of panic, "Oh, the others are looking for me. I'm supposed to be, uh, washing the vegetables. Oh, I am sorry, but I have to go," she threw the tail of her scarf haphazardly over her shoulder.

The voices were growing in volume and proximity, and with a farewell glance the novice disappeared behind the hedges, trotting towards the convent.

Belle stared after her, something in her gaze conflicted. _Why would she help us so much? Give away such a valuable item?_ But as the sun once again broke free from the clouds, the optimistic streak in her won through. _Perhaps she's a fan of true love._

* * *

"Mom! . . . Mom? Hello?"

Henry made his way down the steps into the vault, a hand clutched around the memory stone, and the two pieces of the broken pen tucked away safely in his inner coat pocket. He'd texted Belle a photo of the latter, and she'd headed for the library to begin research, via a hospital detour to check in on Gold. They'd argued briefly about which of the two of them should be the one to venture into Mr. Gold's memories, as Belle held reservations about the intrusion into her husband's— _ex-husband's?_ —privacy. She'd blushingly implied that there would some violent actions within his memories, but also possibly some "uh, a-adult" ones. _Gross._ In return, he'd reasoned both that being the Author and witnessing the stories of others was now his professional responsibility, and also that he was a teenager, and this was technically the time in his life in which he was supposed to be finding out about such dark and dangerous things. _Though most teenagers use the internet, rather than their comatose grandfather's memories. Ugh._

But it was his next point that made enough sense to Belle as a reader to convince her; as the Author he would have to write it all down anyway, so if he witnessed the memories first-hand, they'd be less likely to become distorted through re-telling.

"Mom, Belle and I just got back from the convent. You'll never guess what—"

There was a strange scuffling noise from below, and as Henry rounded the corner Regina and Robin broke apart. For a brief moment he thought he may have interrupted something "a-adult", and immediately wished he could turn in his 'teenager' status and stay a kid forever— _nothing will ever prepare me for witnessing_ that _._ But then he noticed his Mom's eyes, red and puffy, and noted that she was leaning rather heavily on the table behind her.

"Are . . . are you OK?" he faltered, unsure whether or not to back-track up the steps.

"I'm fine Henry, just a little tired," Regina replied, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Robin looked at her without masking his worry, "What was your news?"

"Uh, well, actually Blue was pretty against the idea of waking up Mr. Gold"

Regina snorted, "No surprises there," and for a moment looked far more like her normal self.

"But Astrid was really helpful," he continued, "Apparently when his heart got turned white, all of Mr. Gold's memories were kind of wiped, but she gave us this so that we can get them back," he held out the stone.

Regina immediately started forward, and took the stone carefully in her hands, turning it over in the light.

"What is it?" Robin asked, resting a gentle hand on her back.

"It's an empty memory stone," she answered, impressed, "Remarkable. I haven't seen one in person before; it's said that using this in conjunction with a connecting item will allow you to walk the memories of another," she lowered the stone, "but it would only allow for so many memories—these things have a finite amount of space, you know"

"Oh," Henry bit his lip. He hadn't thought of that, "Astrid had to go before she could explain fully how to use it. But she did say that if we were able to witness Mr. Gold's memories and then write them down, uh, Author-style, we should be able to wake him up," he raised his eyes from the stone, hopeful.

"Hmm," Regina turned and placed the stone carefully on the table, extending a small coil of magic to probe it.

Robin glanced up at Henry, and back at Regina, "Wouldn't it be a bit . . . dangerous, to go diving into the mind of one such as Rumplestiltskin?"

Regina gave a small shrug, "You can't effect someone else's memories and so they can't effect you, at least not in that way. Though there are stories of people who have starved to death, or woken to find hundreds of years have gone by," she caught Henry's worried look, "Stories in the Enchanted Forest that is . . . we have vending machines here," she added.

Robin cleared his throat, wondering briefly if a vending machine was the non-magic equivalent to a preservation spell. He made a mental note to ask Regina later. The Mayor handed the stone back to Henry, who placed it carefully into the inside pocket of his coat, to join the broken pen.

"Well, at least diving into the memory realms will keep that little librarian and her ridiculously over-ambitious heels out of my way for a spell," Regina smiled. With a warning glance at Robin, who was frowning doubtfully, Henry decided to wait until his Mom had a glass of wine with dinner before mentioning that he was actually going to be the realm-diver.

He looked at his mother, changing the subject swiftly, "But what are we going to do about the memory stone running out of space? Three centuries is a long time, and it's a pretty small stone"

Regina leant back against the table, her arms crossed thoughtfully, "Well, I haven't done a huge amount of reading around memory manipulation, beyond practical experience with hearts," she winced at her own honesty, but Robin seemed to bring that out in her, "But I think the general idea is that memories are connected by a very delicate web—like threads in a dreamcatcher, so little things in one memory; an object, a landscape or phrase, for example, can trigger the return of other memories. In theory, if you gathered a wide enough variety, the subject's mind would start to fill in the blanks". Suddenly noticing her son's entranced expression as she spoke, the former Evil Queen felt a rush of warmth in her chest. _I'm teaching him about our world. How could I ever have tried to make him believe he was deluded?_

She couldn't resist reaching out to brush his hair back with her hand, and was satisfied that at least now if he ducked away it was from embarrassment, not revulsion.

Robin gave a wry smile—looking at Henry was like looking at a grown-up vision of Roland, and his heart soared at the possibility that he and Regina together would be mussing their lad's hair, and seeing his teenage discomfiture as—well, as _parents_.

"Uh, guys?" Henry waved his hands at them a little, "Standing around smiling is nice and all, but perhaps we could go to Granny's and do it where they serve food?"

With a chuckle Robin assented, "Yeah, it would probably do our lungs good too to get back into the open air. It's really dusty down here," he ran a demonstrative finger down the table, and jumped when Regina suddenly clapped her hands.

"Dust! That's it!" she exclaimed, and Henry raised an eyebrow.

"You want us to do some cleaning down here before dinner?" he joked.

"No, no, don't you see? Why do you think the dwarves and fairies grind up diamonds, rather than just harnessing the raw power of the stone?"

"To create more employment opportunities?" Robin guessed with a smile.

Regina swatted him playfully, " _No_. It's to spread out the power of the stones—powder can be used more sparingly than chunks of rock. And if they can make fairy dust . . ."

Henry caught on, "We can make memory dust!"

He grinned and gave his Mom a quick hug before dashing up the steps, calling out for them to hurry up over his shoulder.

"Wait, Henry, where are we going?" Regina asked, her heels clicking against the stone stairs, smiling as she felt Robin take her hand.

"To see a dwarf about a pickaxe"

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Ruby asked, peering over Leroy's shoulder at the small stone, and trying to avoid losing an eye as he swung around, the pickaxe resting over his shoulder.

"Are you questioning the mining ability of a dwarf?" he barked back gruffly, "Next to stealing from us, no-one does that, sister"

Ashley gave the waitress an anxious look, "I'd be more worried about your cape, Rubes. Is it going to be alright with a stone being smashed right on top of it?"

Ruby gave a wry smile, "If it can cope with me wolfing out for years, I think it can cope with acting as a dust-collector. Besides, I don't really need it anymore. No wonder I never took to running in human form. Once you've done it properly, it's not easy to sett—"

Henry coughed rather pointedly.

"Alright, alright," Leroy said, and indicated that the others should stand back.

"Do you know which item you're going to use, Henry?" Robin asked, "Do you have anything connecting you to Rumplestiltskin?"

"Yeah, I do," the boy smiled, drawing out the pendant from his pocket and glancing at his Mom, who acknowledged it reluctantly with a small smile, still bristling at the revelation that he intended to dive into the memories of her former mentor himself. It probably hadn't helped that he'd also arranged to stay at the Charming household tonight, to be all the closer to the hospital for an early start. "I thought it would be better than the napkin from a hotdog he bought me in Manhattan"

"You kept a napkin?" Ruby snorted.

Henry smiled, "It was my first road trip with my Mom. I kept everything—plane tickets, shop receipts, even napkins"

Regina's smile faltered.

Henry stood a little closer to her, "And maybe once all this is over, you and I could take a road-trip? I've always wanted to see—"

Leroy grunted, and it was only then that Henry realised he'd been holding the pickaxe above his head, ready to strike, and waiting for silence for some time.

"Sorry," he murmured, and conversation ceased. The wind picked up, rustling the clothes of the small crowd gathered in the street outside the diner. Henry took a deep breath.

 _This is it. Operation Dart-Frog. If this works, we may have enough dust for me to retrieve plenty of memories to wake up Mr. Gold with. And then we can figure out how to free Mom from the darkness. . . And if it doesn't . . ._

With a deep grunt of effort, Leroy brought the pickaxe down.


	2. The Boy and the Darkness

**The Boy and the Darkness**

"Here, I brought this—it's the necklace you gave me to help me face the fire dreams," Henry held it out, as if half-expecting Gold to turn and reappraise its value. "Sister Astrid said that you needed an item that connects us, and I've got a sprinkling of . . . well, stone dust sounds weird, but I guess that's what it is". He sat down by the bed, watching the heartbeat monitors and listening to the thrum of the machines wired up to Gold.

He turned the pendant over in his hands. "You didn't charge us anything for this, so you gave me a gift even before you knew we were family. Once you control the journey, fear will stop—that's what you told me. Well, we need to control the journey now—I need my Mom back, and you're the only one who's been to Camelot, who knows what it's like to be the Dark One". Henry bit his lip, "I haven't been the author for very long, and I know that last time we met you tried to kill me—Grandma Snow says I shouldn't go near you, even like this. But you're my grandparent too, and maybe if I help bring you back to yourself, you could help bring my Mom back to me?"

He pulled open the drawer of the bedside cabinet, and carefully retrieved the bottle of grey-brown dust. His heart beat a little faster as he uncorked the bottle and shook some onto the pendant, before placing it back in the drawer. _I hope this doesn't take too long. If my Mom's guess is correct then you've been around for three hundred years. That's a lot of memories to witness, magic or not. And only a couple of yours made it into the book._

Henry closed his eyes and reached out a hand to touch Gold's. _Isaac might not have been interested, but I am. Let's see what you've got, Grandpa._ The moment their skin touched, the boy felt the floor drop out from under him.

* * *

With a heavy thump and a gasp, Henry landed on his back in the dust. Coughing as a strange array of new odours hit him—musky livestock, rich manure and wood-smoke—he rubbed his eyes open. Around him chickens scratched the earth, children chased each other and gaunt adults in rough spun clothes bustled about in their work. _A village_ , he guessed. But as soon as the thought reached him, so did a barrage of unbidden ones, in a weary, strangely familiar tone.

 _ **This thread is not selling as it should. We'll not have bread tomorrow**_ **.**

Henry scrambled to his feet and whipped around; the voice was so close that he expected the speaker to be directly behind him, but the villagers walked by oblivious to him. He scanned his surroundings, looking for any landmark he might recognise. Ahead was a stone well, a makeshift chair cut from a log, and in the distance a windmill was silhouetted against a grey sky tinged red by the sun. He frowned. _I don't know this place._

 _ **Bae will have the stew—he's a growing lad, he needs it more than I**_ **.**

Henry's eyes widened: _But I do know that voice._ Turning back, he faced a small, rundown house of stone, near to which a wooden rack stood, with strands of wool drying upon it. _Bae—Neal—my Dad_. _But surely this couldn't be it? Mr. Gold, living in a hovel?_ Cautiously he approached the sheet of canvas draped across the entrance as a makeshift door, but as he made to draw it back his senses tingled and his hand passed straight through the fabric. Henry tried again, and watched as the tips of his fingers disappeared beyond the material. _I'm a ghost. Cool._ From inside he could hear some kind of creaking, like a spoke turning. Bracing himself, the young boy stepped through the canvas.

The room was musty but well-kept, with fleeces of wool draped from the wooden beams that supported the building. On the table lay a couple of candles, a small bowl of vegetables, and above a large fire copper pans cast dancing shadows. Henry stared in fascination at the way his scuffing trainers failed to disturb the straw beneath them, but the sound of a spinning wheel made him glance up. _Gold._ The man's back was to him as he worked, absorbed in the turning of the wheel.

"Uh, Mr. Go—", he cleared his throat, "Rumplestiltskin?"

His grandfather made no movement to indicate that he'd heard, and so Henry stepped forward slowly, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. As it had with the canvas parting, his hand passed straight through. _Of course_ , the boy thought, mentally kicking himself, _I'm here to witness his memories, not be part of them._

He sidestepped to get a better view of the spinner, eyebrows raised slightly. The only time he'd seen Gold in this land was in the fake story Isaac had written. His grandpa had been a hero; a knight in a flowing cloak, and not his grandfather. Here he looked . . . different. His face was thinner, though with age or worry it was hard to tell, his hair was browner, more unkempt, and a thin layer of grime coated his skin. His clothes were all of the same dull brown colour, his eyes were troubled and his jaw lined with stubble. _Not exactly Armani suits and fancy cologne here._ The boy tilted his head, watching. Gold's hands were the same though and, as with delicate movements he worked the wheel, Henry could almost imagine a prized trinket from the pawn shop in their place.

Outside, the thundering of hooves approached. A boy burst in through the flap, frantically calling out, "Papa! Papa!"

Rumplestiltskin turned quickly, alarmed at the panic in his son's tone, and Henry flinched at the sudden, louder intrusion of his grandfather's thoughts. _**Bae. My boy! What—?**_

"They've come for Morraine"

 _Dad._ Henry stared, and found to his relief that he could lean against one of the wooden beams without falling through. The solid support of the structure was a comfort. _I'm staring at my father._ His eyes desperately drank in every detail, and he felt a sharp pang of pain. _I look like him. I missed his funeral. I was there but . . . I wasn't really_ there _. He has my eyes. I mean, I have hi—_

 _ **By God's name, please no.**_

Rumplestiltskin rose, grabbed his walking staff, and hurried outside with his son. After a moment passed, Henry exhaled and followed them.

 _ **This can't be happening. Not again. No, no, wait, not too close Bae!**_

The spinner limped quickly, struggling to catch up with his son as he gathered amid the other villagers, watching in horror as a young girl was brought forward. Henry bit his lip. _She looks a little like Grace_.

The cries of her parents grew desperate, "No!" "No! Please, please!" "No! No, don't take her! No! No, you can't take her! She's my baby! Don't take my baby!"

A man in black on horseback retorted roughly, "Nonsense. She's a fine, strong girl. She'll make a fine soldier," his eyes lingering a little too long on the struggling child.

Her father shook his head frantically, "It's a mistake—she's turning fourteen. Only fourteen!"

Rumplestiltskin reached a protective arm around Bae, his heart beating wildly, knuckles clenched white around his walking staff.

 _ **Bae's nearly fourteen. No, no, please—this can't be right.**_

"Orders of the Duke!" the man barked, looking down at the staring peasants, "The Ogre Wars have taken their toll this season. More troops will turn the tide"

 _ **I should be out there, if anyone. Not children, not Bae. If I hadn't deformed myself. . .**_

From where he stood, Henry could see Rumplestiltskin tremble.

Baelfire looked to his father, his voice soft and frightened, "They lowered the age again, Papa"

 _ **Three days.**_

"I know" he breathed, pulling Bae closer to him, as if that small movement alone could keep his boy safe.

"Take her"

The knights shoved at the girl's parents, pushing her forward as the man in black leaned closer. His eyes were hungry and his voice dropped lower.

"She'll ride with me"

Amid the cries and pleas from her parents, Morraine was thrown atop the horse. Henry clenched his fists at his sides. _I wish I could help. This is so useless._ He glanced around, scanning for any loophole, any hint that he'd be able to intervene. _Why doesn't someone_ do _something?_

As if in answer, a wild desperation gripped the girl's mother—she drew a knife and lunged towards the knight, "No! You can't have her!"

Something rolled through the atmosphere; she froze, arm-raised and began to choke, falling to her knees with her husband as they clawed at their throats. _Magic._

"The Dark One seems to think I can"

Henry unclenched his fists in surprise. _Dark One? But Rumplestiltskin isn't—oh._ His eyes set on a cloaked figure atop a black horse in the fields beyond the hand was raised, emitting a blue torrent of energy. Images of the Dark One's dagger flooded the boy's mind, all bearing the same inscription. _Emma Swan. Mom._ Henry allowed his shaky knees to lower him to the ground, oblivious to the villagers who rushed through him to the safety of their houses. _She wouldn't have done that though. Not to those parents—that girl._ The dark figure had relented and the knight and his horsemen rode away, the petrified girl in tow. Behind him, he could just hear the hushed, frightened voices of his father and grandfather, distorted by the racking sobs of the young mother.

"My birthday's in three days. They'll come for me in three days!"

"We'll find a way," Rumplestiltskin breathed, "We'll . . . We'll find a way"

 _ **Oh Bae. I'm afraid.**_

* * *

Henry watched as father and son returned to their house; as the light faded and the crackle of the fireplace grew, as Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire prepared their supper—stew for the boy and a cup of watery tea for his papa. He watched—with, he noted uncomfortably, a slight pang of jealousy—as the spinner tucked his son into bed with woollen blankets and sheepskin, the finest items in the house, brushing his brown locks of hair aside to kiss him goodnight on the forehead. _Neal would have done that for me. If he'd known. If he'd lived._ He hugged his knees to his chest, grateful that his hands didn't pass through them at the least, and watched as the gaunt man limped about the house, tidying and agitated, absorbed in his thoughts. But mostly his gaze rested on his father, whose youthful face became utterly peaceful in slumber. Rumplestiltskin's thoughts repeated in a cyclone of fear and uncertainty— _ **how is Bae to be saved?**_ _ **What can be done? I must not lose him.**_ Outside the clouds rolled over the moon, and the air grew lighter.

 _ **She never answers. But I will never forgive myself if I don't ask.**_

Henry jumped slightly. _Uh oh._ He'd let the thoughts, the familiar voice of Mr. Gold, albeit slightly higher and more hesitant in this land, wash over him as he watched his father. _What the—?_ Rumplestiltskin abruptly left the house. Henry lurched up, pins and needles tingling in his legs. He made to follow the spinner, but as he reached the cloth divide he hesitated. If his guess was correct, and his grandfather was soon to become the Dark One then there wouldn't be much more opportunity to see Bae—to spend time with his father. He tried to recall if the book had mentioned the age at which father and son were separated by a portal and the former's cowardice. _Why is it, now that I'm stuck in someone else's memories, my own are so hazy?_ The Author knew that he must stride purposefully into the night, to witness and record all that befell Rumplestiltskin. But still the lost boy in him lingered.

It took him a moment to notice that the light in the room was dimming. The fire still burned just as bright but yet everything grew darker. He put his hands over his ears, feeling oddly like he was sinking underwater—sounds were growing fainter and even the rank stench of the newer woollen pelts seemed to be becoming mild and odourless. He fumbled outside into the fresh air, which in itself seemed staler than before. Yet with a few steps forward his senses felt a little stronger. Henry squinted, just able to make out the figure of Rumplestiltskin disappearing into the woods ahead. He lunged onwards; by the time he'd caught up with the spinner everything felt crystal clear again, and he heaved the cool air into his lungs, savouring the heavy scent of pine and damp soil.

Trying to catch his breath as he followed his grandfather— _even with a limp he never hangs about_ —Henry struggled to make sense of what had happened.

 _ **Further, further to the clearing. Gods, I have to hurry, it'll be daybreak soon. Two days then. Just two.**_

 _Was someone trying to wake me in the real world? In Storybrooke?_ By the time they slowed to a halt in a clearing, he'd puzzled it out. _I experience what Rumplestiltskin can remember—if he leaves a place he doesn't know what happens there, what it feels like. So I can't know either. I have to follow him._ A small prickle of guilt needled his conscience. _I would have done the right thing though. The Author-ly thing._

 _ **Here.**_

The spinner dropped to his knees, and clasped his hands above his head, keeping his face down. Henry pondered, _fear or reverence?_ The lean man shivered, his hands wringing. _Cold or fear? Is he praying?_ The young boy had never known Mr. Gold to defer to anyone, let alone a higher being.

"Please, please—if you're out there, I beg you, come to my aid," his voice was hoarse, heavy with nervousness, "Reul Ghorm, Blue Star. I _need_ you"

With a sharp intake of breath, Rumplestiltskin looked about the clearing, straight through Henry, and then back down at his knees, raising his hands higher until his back ached and his ankle throbbed. _Mr. Gold wants Mother Superior to help him?_

"It's my son, my boy: Baelfire. They're going to take him. Bae," his voice broke, "I can't let him go. I can't let him die. Please, please, I'll do anything"

Through the forest clearing a light breeze stirred, then fell.

"Take me instead—let me die," his hands shook in the air as he began to sob, "He's o-old enough now, and it's only me they l-loathe, not the boy—the v-village would care for him. Please, p-please," Rumplestiltskin choked, and the rest of his words became muffled as he let his hands fall at last, and buried his face in them.

 _ **No, no, no. It's hopeless. It was just a lost illusion. I'm helpless.**_

The thoughts felt bitter, but lonely too, and Henry felt a strange twist in his stomach. He'd experienced a wide range of emotions towards the elusive Mr. Gold; he'd believed him a villain to be distrusted, suspected; a slippery ally to be followed only with care and, when a captive of Zelena, a dangerous enemy of both his mothers, albeit not of his own choice. Even after the trip to Manhattan he'd been wary. A child's smile can hide realms. _You're my grandpa, but I don't trust you_. But now? Now he felt something new, something he was certain Mr. Gold would hate for him, or for anyone, to feel towards him. _Pity._

The spinner drew a deep breath, and began struggling to his feet. Out of instinct Henry stepped forward to help, but whilst his touch sailed through the wooden staff, Rumplestiltskin's grasped it firmly. _Why didn't the Blue Fairy come? When I get back, I ought to ask—_

 _ **Run. We need to run, my boy.**_

For a moment Henry though that was a direct instruction from his grandfather, but the words hadn't been meant for him. They walked hurriedly back, stumbling through the brambles to the little hovel, as Rumplestiltskin wiped the dampness from his face. _Perspiration? Tears?_ Henry didn't look too closely. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

* * *

Three figures hobbled across the dewy field, a brief respite from woodlands and bracken, and the sky broke into a foreboding red.

 ** _Two days now, just two days to get away._**

Henry's eyes were fixed on Baelfire. _At least I'm with my Dad again. And I'm stuck in a memory; it's not like I can change the past here—not like Hook and my Mom did. Huh, Prince Charles and Princess Leia, that is._ Henry snorted to himself. _Of all the false identities to choose to fit in at the ball, Mom had to go with the British monarchy and Star Wars. Who would I have been, if I'd had my memories and gotten sucked in too?_ He chuckled to himself, "Duke Skywalker?" Henry's smile faded as his thoughts lingered on Emma. He pulled the sleeves of his sweatshirt down and rubbed them between his fingers. _I'm here, but where is she? Is she here too, but far, far in the future?_ He blinked hard. _Can I leave her something?_

He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, rooting around for a glove, a button, anything. He pulled out his old grey and red striped scarf. _That's perfect! But, will this world let me leave it behind?_ He slowed down to think, aware that he wouldn't have much time when Bae and Rumplestiltskin overtook him before his senses would fade again. _Decide fast._ He paced quickly over to a young pine tree, and tied the scarf around one of its lower branches, thankful that it didn't just flutter to the ground _._ He gave it a goodbye squeeze, just in case—after all, he'd had that thing for years, and trotted to catch up with the others, keeping his eyes on the limb of the tree. The scarf didn't evaporate, nor reappear in his pockets, but it didn't sway in the wind either. _It's a non-being here. Like I am. I can touch things, but if I try to change them I just pass through. I can't change the landscape of a memory._

"It feels wrong to run away"

Baelfire looked to his father, but the spinner was silent for a moment as they entered a darker part of the forest again.

 _ **I know. But if you have something to run to, it's different. I had you.**_

"It's worse to die, son," his father replied, "I'm not having you taken away to the Ogres' war". His eyes were cast down, and he was leaning heavily on his staff.

 _ **Before I had you Bae, I may have well as been dust. I can't lose you, my boy.**_

In the distance another lantern gleamed in the blue light, and Rumplestiltskin tensed. Henry jogged slightly ahead, curious, but it was only a beggar. The man rose to his feet, holding out a canvas bag.

"Alms for the poor?" he said softly, "Alms for the poor?"

The spinner hesitated. _**We have so little.**_ But his son was beside him, warm and real. _**I have much.**_

"Yes," he breathed, taking out a bread roll from his sack.

"Oh! Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you"

Rumplestiltskin nodded, a small warmth spreading in his chest. _**Maybe for a few years more, I can still be a hero in my boy's eyes at least.**_ They walked on, and Henry lagged slightly, painfully aware that if his assumptions of their time-frame were correct, such a sentiment would be short-lived.

"Are we sure there's no other way?" Baelfire asked, studying his papa's face.

Rumplestiltskin's shoulders sagged slightly, "Oh, I can't lose you, Bae. You're all I've got left, son. You don't understand what war is like: what they do to you"

 _ **Horses.**_

"Horses!" Henry called out, his voice sore from underuse, as he noticed the rumbling of hooves approaching. But it was a moment before his observation was echoed in the spinner's panic.

"Quick—hide!" Rumplestiltskin instructed Baelfire frantically, "In the ditch—hide! Go, go! Go!"

But Bae didn't move quickly enough, and the horses soon surrounded them. _**Cowardice is not in his nature. He's not like me.**_

"Stop right there!"

 _The black knight from before. Does he have the Dark One with him?_ Not for the first time Henry wished he could sense out magic like his mothers. _Do they have an alliance, or does this knight have his dagger? The dagger. Mom's dagger._

"What are you doing on the King's road?" the knight demanded.

Rumplestiltskin grabbed his son's wrist, but the lie came with surprising ease, "We have some wool to sell at the fair at Longbourne, Sir," he answered, nodding, as if to attribute credibility to his own tale. But as the light from their torches illuminated his face, the spinner felt a tinge of regret for looking up. _**What if—?**_

"I know you, don't I?"

Henry's brows furrowed. _From the village? When they took Morriane?_

 _ **They recognise me. Please, please not this.**_ His eyes widened, like a hare's as the jaws of the fox begin to close.

The knight dismounted, and approached with a mocking leer, "What was your name? Hmm? Spindleshanks?" A small wave of appreciative laughter arose from his companions, growing louder with each guess, "Threadwhistle?" He pronounced the last one with extra scorn, his eyes on the cripple's lame ankle, "Hobblefoot?"

Baelfire stepped forward, his proud young eyes angry at their jeers, "His name's Rumplestiltskin"

The spinner cringed, and trembled more visibly as he reached out a hand for Bae's shoulder, "Hush, boy!"

"Rumple—ah," the knight tasted the name, and realisation dawned on him slowly, "the man who _ran_ ". At this the spinner lowered his head, his grey cheeks reddening. "Is this your boy? How old is he?" Henry watched as Rumplestiltskin's mouth moved but, choked by fear, no words came out. _**There's no right answer.**_ The man in black turned to the lad, "What's your name?"

The boy's eyes blazed defiance, "I'm Baelfire and I'm thirteen"

 _ **No.**_ The thought was weaker, and Rumplestiltskin's heart constricted in fear. _**No.**_

 _Don't say that, Dad, don't tell them._ But in the same second Henry was taken back to a moment in which he had done similar. Manhattan. He could hear his father's gruff voice in his head and Emma's rising panic. _H-how old are you? Don't answer him. How old are you, kid?! Eleven! Now, why is everyone yelling?_

"When's your birthday?"

"In two days' time—" _**No. No. No.**_

"Hush, boy!"

The knight paused, enjoying the moment. "Did you teach him how to run as well, Rumplestiltskin?"

Baelfire tilted his head, confused.

 _ **Please.**_

"Did he tell you? Did he tell you how he ran and the ogres turned the tide of the battle, and all the others were killed," Rumplestiltskin's boy lowered his eyes, "and he returned home to a wife who could not _bear_ the sight of him?" Bae's mouth dropped open and his father looked away, struggling to hide that he was on the verge of tears. Henry glanced away, uncomfortable. _My grandmother? She despised Mr. Gold?_

"Please . . ."

The knight's voice had dropped to a deliberately confiding whisper, and he leaned slightly closer to Baelfire, "You see, women do not like to be married to cowards"

Bae's gaze was transfixed on the knight, and with every moment that his father didn't deny the accusations his heart was sinking. _**Coward.**_ The spinner flinched at the word, and shuddered as if he was crumbling from the inside—had a breeze arisen, he was sure he would have been ashes.

Henry had never heard Rumplestiltskin's voice quite so small before, "Please don't speak to my boy like that"

The man in black raised his voice and turned his back, returning to his duty, "It's treason to avoid service. Take the boy now"

As the other knights moved forward, the spinner stuttered desperately, "No, no, no, no!" and when the man in black turned to look back at him, he met his gaze, pained brown eyes connecting with those of cold blue, "What do you want?"

A smile played at the taller man's lips, "What do I want?" he looked about him almost theatrically, perhaps pretending to search for a cart or trunk of treasure he'd failed to spot, "You have no money, no influence, no land, no title. No _power_ ". The word seemed to resound in the clearing as the spinner clutched Bae to him. "The truth is, all you really have is fealty." The knight savoured each word of the instruction: "Kiss my boot".

"Leave him alone!" Henry forgot for a moment that his words were just as useless as his actions here, and he rushed at the man in black, but as he passed through the man's body his trainers caught each other and he sprawled leftward, landing heavily on the ground.

 _ **Fealty . . . Boot . . . Kiss . . .?**_

Rumplestiltskin blinked, as if the words hadn't made sense. He could feel Bae looking up at him, his eyes huge and fearful. "I don't understand—"

"You asked my price. Kiss my boot"

Lips quivering, the spinner tried to summon bravery, to be someone his son could be proud of. "Not in front of my boy" he murmured. _**I don't have to be a coward. I am**_ **nothing** _ **like my father.**_

" _Kiss_ my _boot_!" the knight roared, and began to draw his sword. _**But what choice do I have?**_ The sound of metal jolted him into movement.

 _ **Bae, oh Bae. Please don't look. Please run away and don't see this.**_

Rumplestiltskin crumpled to the ground, all but tossing his staff away, and bent—humiliated and broken—to kiss the boot of the smirking knight. He lingered for a moment, not sure if it was enough, not daring to raise his head, and willing with every ounce of his spent strength for his son to look away from his mortification. From the ground where he lay, Henry studied his grandfather miserably. _I'm sorry I can't help you, grandpa. I'm as powerless here as you are . . ._

A single tear ran along Rumplestiltskin's nose, hitting the earth as the men laughed. _**If I can't protect him, can't protect my boy, then let the world be done with me.**_

With a loud crunch the knight brought his boot up hard into the cripple's stomach, splintering a bone in the wrist of the protective arm he'd raised. He fell back heavily, crying out in pain.

"Papa!" Baelfire ran to his side, as the knight mounted his horse. With a final long look at their victim, the horsemen cantered away into the forest. Henry tried in vain to fling a rock after them.

 _ **My boy. My boy still calls for me.**_

Rumplestiltskin struggled to get up, but at the sound of someone approaching he cowered back, shaking.

 _ **They're back—they're back for mor—**_

"No, no, no! No! It's okay," the beggar reached out a gentle hand, "Let me help you. Let me help you home"

"Thank you, old man" Baelfire murmured, as he raised his father falteringly to his feet.

Rumplestiltskin blanched, "I don't have any money to pay you"

 _ **No money. No influence, no land, no title. No power.**_ The words reverberated in his mind, buffeting his ability to focus. _**Kiss my boot. Kiss my boot. Women do not like to be married to cowards. The man who ran. Kiss my boot.**_

The beggar steered him carefully, supporting his right arm and taking the weight that his staff usually bore, "I can think of another way. You just leave me whatever you can spare, and I'll find a way to be your benefactor". Henry frowned at the back of the beggar, as he began to follow them. _Benefactor?_

 _ **K-k-kiss my boot.**_

"Come"

* * *

Henry lowered himself onto Bae's bed, lying with his back aligned as best as he could get it with his father's. If he moved too close he'd just pass through him, but he wanted to at least give himself the comfort of pretending they were side by side. Baelfire breathed softly in his sleep. _I bet most dads and their kids fall asleep like this all the time. Apart the fact that from they aren't normally the same age. A kid can't have a kid after all._

"Night, Dad" he whispered.

But instead of closing his eyes, Henry watched the two older men move about the room. Lit by the fire, he studied the scene and listened carefully. _Everything. I have to remember everything for the book. No dozing off._ Rumplestiltskin was scooping a spoonful of stew into a bowl for the beggar, who sat at the table. Their voices were hushed.

"Another day gone," the spinner lowered himself onto a stool and set down his staff, "There'll be no fleeing, now"

 _ **And it was our only chance.**_

"No," the beggar asserted, tucking into the hot stew "You need to find another way. You need to choose a different path"

Rumplestiltskin's expression was tinged with disparagement, "Choose? What choice do I have?"

The older man lowered his bowl, nonplussed by the cripple's lack of hope, "Everyone has a choice"

Henry bit his lip. Emma had told him once that she had no choice—she had to leave Storybrooke, to stop other people from getting hurt. He'd eaten poison to prove her wrong. Told her that she was just scared like all heroes got before the big battle. _The low moment before you fight back._

Rumplestiltskin lay a hand over his heart and, eyes full of a quiet self-loathing, proceeded to correct the old man's optimism, "I'm the town coward. The only choice I have is which corner to hide in. I'm lame, friendless . . ." his voice trembled and he raised a hand to point towards Bae and Henry, "The only thing I've got is my _boy_ ". Struggling to control the despair he felt surging up, the spinner continued "And they're going to take him away from me. If they take him away, I would truly, truly become dust"

The beggar had been studying his companion's face hard, and leant forward, steel in his words, "Not if you have power"

Henry pulled his coat a little tighter around himself. _Power. In Storybrooke a word synonymous with Mr. Gold._

Rumplestiltskin hesitated, before shaking his head, "You may as well say diamonds"

"Get a hold of yourself! Think," the old man whispered, "Why do you think that someone as powerful as the Dark One would work for a useless fool like the Duke of the Frontlands?"

The young boy's ears pricked up. _The Duke made a deal. Or, the Duke has his dagger?_

The spinner listened enrapt, "Tell me"

"The Duke has the Dark One in thrall. He's enslaved him with the power of a mystical dagger and on the blade is written a name—the true name of the Dark One" he breathed, punctuating his words with the point of his finger, "If you steal the dagger, then you would control the Dark One yourself. And then _no one_ would be able to take your son away from you"

Henry tried not to think about the moment in which his Mom had reached her hand up into the chaotic mass of darkness, her eyes wide and frightened.

A moment passed as the image the old man had conjured sank in to the spinner's understanding.

"To keep a man like the Dark One as a slave?"

The cripple shuddered. _**No-one should be used in such a way, least of all a powerful sorcerer with darkness at his fingertips. And what would such a man do, if—if he were able to turn on his captor? If a mistake was made and the dagger regained?**_

 _Hook tried to use Mom's dagger. Tried to summon her. If she'd still been in our world . . ._

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. "No, I . . . I—I can't. I'd be terrified"

The fire crackled, and the shadows grew longer. His eyes cast down, the beggar seemed to think of a new idea, voicing it slowly. "Then, perhaps, instead of controlling the power, you need to take it"

Henry leaned forward slightly, listening hard. He didn't know nearly as much as he wanted to about the dagger and its curse, and everything that had happened with Emma had been so . . . unconventional. _It seems Dark Ones weren't generally very talkative about their Achilles Heel. Go figure._ But maybe something here, some snippet of information, would provide a key to figuring out how to get her back. Defeat the curse.

 _ **Take the power? Take the . . . darkness?**_

The beggar leant forward, gripping the spinner's shoulder firmly, "Don't you see? Once you control the journey, all this fear will stop"

Henry shivered slightly. Rumplestiltskin watched as a drop of hot wax rolled down one of the candles. They were burning low. Precious time was passing.

"Tell me how"

The boy listened intently as the beggar described the castle, detailed the exact location of the Dark One's dagger, hidden behind a curtain; planted seeds of ideas, a distraction of some sort, a swift retrieval, one plunge of the dagger into the chest of an evil man, and power untold.

Whilst the spinner hung on the old man's every word, enthralled, Henry frowned, something not sitting right at the back of his mind. _He knows so much, and yet he doesn't want to take the power for himself. With that kind of information, why is he still just a beggar? He'd never have to plead for alms if he had the Dark One's power under his control. Or even if he sold the knowledge of the dagger's location. Why give it away?_

The night drew on, and as the voices faded, and the spinner settled his guest in front of the fire, plying him with thin, threadbare blankets, Henry couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. Something was going to go wrong. He'd learnt to push Rumplestiltskin's thoughts behind his own, to quiet them somewhat. After all, the stories in his book didn't tend towards a stream of consciousness—they were just that: stories. Not memories. An insight into the mind of the stand-offish Mr. Gold was pretty interesting, he'd admit, but not exactly necessary from a writing perspective. At times it felt wrong, even. He didn't want to know when his grandfather's bladder was pressed, or when he thought of a tall woman with dark, bewitching eyes. Milah, his mind had called her. _Bae's mother? My grandmother?_ So absorbed was Henry in his own thoughts that he jumped when he realised that Rumplestiltskin was standing right over him.

The spinner seemed to be staring at him with a sad, tender smile. He smiled back tentatively, and felt Bae shift slightly in his sleep. _Oh, right. He's not looking at me._ He cast his eyes down to the floor. Reached out a gentle hand, Rumplestiltskin stroked back the hair from his son's forehead.

 _ **I promise Bae, whatever happens, I'll always be with you. I will never, ever leave you.**_

It had taken perhaps two or three hours for Henry to realise that he couldn't sleep normally here. At first he thought it might be the cold, for even if this world couldn't really feel him, he experienced it just as acutely as his own. Then he considered that it might be because of the hunger. It felt like days since he'd last eaten, and so, with a guilty glance at his scrawny grandfather lying restlessly on the hay, he'd dipped a hand into the pot of stew. Of course it had come up empty, and he kicked himself for getting his hopes up. _How long has it been since I went into the hospital in Storybrooke? Surely the hospital staff wouldn't let me die within a memory?_ He lay back on the bed and, quite suddenly, everything went black. Then, just as quickly, his senses returned and the hovel came into view again. Rumplestiltskin coughed. _Oh. He must have dozed off for a moment. So I guess that means that, as this is his memory, I can only sleep when he does? Huh._

Eventually, tired of waiting for the spinner to drift from his worries into sleep, Henry arose and began to look around the house properly. _How often am I going to get the chance to look round my Dad's childhood home undisturbed?_ Absorbed in studying the cooking implements, his dad's clothes and the spinning equipment, the time began to pass rather quickly. When he found his father's drawings—landscapes, quick sketches of shepherds and their flocks, the start of a self-portrait—the hours flew by.

He was examining a crude attempt at a carving of a horse, and the blunt, poorly made knife lying beside it, when he became aware of something moving behind his back. He turned to find Rumplestiltskin preparing tea, and noticed with a start how light it had gotten. _I guess you never got back to sleep, Grandpa._

The weak morning sun began to strengthen, bleeding a new shade of red across the sky—Bae and the beggar were given little dried biscuits and tea for breakfast, while Henry spent his time trying to recall if the old man had ever given his name. Before the rest of the village had fully awakened, the beggar was bidding the spinner and his son a temporary farewell. He reassured them with a guarded smile that he'd see them again.

 _ **Thank you, old man. You've given us hope at the least—and at the most . . .**_

Rumplestiltskin and Baelfire stood in the doorway together, watching him go. Henry hadn't liked the beggar's smile, nor his expression when he accepted the last roll that the spinner had been saving.

"Shall I fetch your wool, papa?"

"Yes Bae, thank you—but I won't be spinning today," he replied, mussing a hand through his son's hair, "We've got something more important to do this morning. Go lay the outside fire"

Puzzled, Bae did as he was asked, and soon his father had gathered a bundle of sticks and joined him at the side of the house. The spinner began wrapping them in wool. Henry sat with his back against the stone wall of the building, watching them work.

"Keep that fire good and stoked, Bae. The sheep's fat needs to be liquid," he pointed at the basket, "and get that wool good and soaked"

 _ **Everything needs to be perfect.**_

His son followed his gaze, confused, "Why are we doing this, Papa? This is good wool. We can spin and sell"

Rumplestiltskin sounded uncharacteristically confident, "These are our keys to the castle, son". Henry nodded in realisation. _The beggar's suggestion must have stuck. You're going to start a fire._ "And once I'm inside—there's something I have to take"

Baelfire only looked more bewildered, "What do you need to take?"

The spinner stopped his work and looked earnestly at his son. "That old beggar? He told me a fine tale—about the Duke and his magical dagger"

"What does it do?"

Rumplestiltskin released an excited breath. "If I own that dagger, I control the Dark One. If I kill the Dark One with the dagger," he continued, imagining the blade in his hands, before stepping forward to pat Bae on the arm, "I take his powers"

"By god's name"

Henry watched his father's expression, a mixture of fear and wonder. And his grandfather—Henry hadn't seen him this worked up before. The last time he'd spoken with such an eclectic mix of anticipation and terror he'd had his dagger poised above the back of Peter Pan.

"Imagine me with those powers. Can you imagine me with those powers, Bae? I could get to redeem myself. I could turn it towards good. I'll save all the children of the Frontlands—not just you, my boy"

Something cold clenched at Henry's heart. _If that's what he intended—if Mr. Gold took the darkness to protect Bae, to save the children, and yet he managed to turn out a monster—to drive his son away and slaughter hundreds . . . Gramps and Grandma Snow always said he took the dagger for power. Took it out of greed._ His hands closed into fists. _They said that Mom would be different, because she took it in goodness. Sacrificed herself to the darkness. No, no, this can't be right. Something has to change him, change Rumplestiltskin before he gets the dagger._

Baelfire's expression softened, "I'd love to see that," he faltered, turning a torch in his hands, "but if the law says I'm to fight, I . . . I can fight"

Fear moved behind Rumplestiltskin's eyes, "No, no, no! The law doesn't want you to fight, son. The law wants you to die. That's not battle—that's sacrifice, son". He pointed upwards, "You look at that red in the sky. That's not the . . . the fires of the battlefields—that's the blood of our people, son," he pleaded. "It's the blood of children. The blood of children like you. I mean, what sane person would want to get involved with that?" he asked, returning to his work.

 _ **I did once. Got the summons and practically danced around the house. Convinced Milah it was my chance to get out of my father's shadow.**_ The spinner seemed to flinch at the thought. _**Surely Bae doesn't think, surely he doesn't want . . .**_

Henry had often reflected on how many stories in his book were built in circles. Repeated mistakes, inherited flaws. _At least my Dad broke the cycle. I'd be proud to stand in his shadow._

Baelfire seemed to look at his father with new eyes, "So, it's true"

"What?"

"It's true. It's true you ran"

Rumplestiltskin tried not to recoil at the knight's foul words, regurgitated by his boy. "I had no choice, son"

"And Mother? Did she leave you like the knight said?" his wide brown eyes were full of betrayal, "You told me she was dead"

Rumplestiltskin looked down, his face hidden behind his lank hair. **_It was my fault. A man who cannot fight for what he wants . . . condemns those he loves._**

He breathed the words, barely audible, "She is dead"

A long moment passed, and Bae walked to the fire, staring at its embers as he sat. Resolve tightened in his eyes. "So, what do we need to do?"

The relief in the spinner's face was palpable and as he sat to explain to his son, Henry reiterated to himself his own intentions with renewed vigour. No one could hear him, but it helped to say the words aloud. Helped to hear them outside of his own head.

"I'm going to return Mr. Gold's memories to him—gather enough to wake him from stasis. Then he's going to tell us what to do. And then—then we're going to save my Mom"

* * *

The Duke's castle was huge and, in Henry's mind, suspiciously deserted. He hadn't trusted the beggar nearly as much as the spinner seemed to, and as he watched his father and grandfather set the place alight he tensed for a sudden crowd of guards—or worse, the Dark One himself—to appear. _It has to be some kind of ambush._

"Go into the woods, son, and wait for me there"

Henry wished he could stay with his father, and not just for sentimental reasons. Entering the blazing great hall, as the flames crackled and reared higher and the smoke grew black, he couldn't help but feel he was back in the fire dreams. His skin itched with a phantom burning, but he knew here he wouldn't burn. At least, he didn't think he would. _When I wake up though—if I wake up hungry, could I also wake up burned? Or shot by an arrow, or trampled by a horse? Or would I only need food because my Storybrooke body hasn't been eating?_

Rumplestiltskin by now had hobbled over to a large curtain, decorated with the coat of arms that the beggar had described. _Maybe he meant to have Grandpa steal it, without having to risk his own body in the flames?_ The spinner tugged at the fabric and it fell, disturbing the ashes that floated through the smoke-filled room.

 _ **There it is. It's real. The old man's story was true.**_

The dagger glimmered in the firelight, and Henry tilted his head to read it. _Zoso._

 _ **And this must be the true name of the Dark One. Ss? Z—Zo. Zos.**_

Henry blinked, surprised. _It's smoky in here but the engraving's pretty thick. Unless . . . well, he is just a spinner here. Can Grandpa Gold read?_

 _ **Soso. Zo-soh? Zoh-so.**_

Behind him a chunk of blackened wood from the rafters fell with a _thunk_ and it seemed to arouse the spinner from his musings. He limped quickly across the room, oblivious to his spectre grandson following close behind and breathing through his coat sleeve.

They left the castle just as the stones in the walls began to dislodge, their wooden support structure collapsing not unlike, Henry thought, a deck of cards. In the distance there was shouting, but they passed no-one, saw no bodies. Rumplestiltskin heaved a sigh of relief. Playing with fire was dangerous, and controlling such a large-scale distraction near impossible. The spinner turned the dagger over in his hands nervously.

 _ **I can save you with this, Bae. I can protect you forever. With this, no-one would ever be able to take you from me again. This is power. Real power over our futures.**_

Looking over his shoulder fretfully he tucked the blade into his belt and limped on towards the forest. As he hobbled onwards it was as if his body noticed the intake of smoke for the first time, and he began to cough and wheeze. Breath rattling the spinner went on, into the woods. Paranoia made him skittish, but thankfully he saw Baelfire rushing forward before the boy's cry of "Papa!" had a chance to startle him.

"Oh, Bae"

Henry smiled at his father, transfixed yet again. _We look quite similar. I have his nose, too._

"I was so worried for you. Are . . . Are you burned? The castle—"

Rumplestiltskin leant heavily on his staff as he caught his breath, "I'm fine, son. I'm fine. I need you to go home and wait for me there"

Bae's eyes were pleading, "Come with me—please," he hesitated, "I have a bad feeling"

His father's voice was firm, "Bae, this is something I have to do on my own. Go home, son! Go home and wait for me, Bae. I'll be back. You go"

Reluctantly Henry's father did as he was told. As soon as he was out of sight the spinner rested his staff against his shoulder and drew the dagger from his belt, licking his lips nervously. His weight all on his left leg, he held the blade up, near to the light of the torch.

He took a breath, and uttered the name. Henry stood beside him.

"Zoso". A moment passed, and he tried again, slightly louder, "Zoso".

 _ **I'm saying it wrong, I should have asked Bae what he thought the engraving said before I sent him home. Still, I have to try.**_

The spinner mustered all the authority he could voice, "I summon thee!"

Nothing happened. _**We came so far, so close. Was it all a lie?**_ Lowering the dagger in disbelief, he turned—and found himself face to face with the Dark One.

"Argh!" he stumbled backwards, dropping the torch. Henry was glad no one could see how similar his own reaction had been, but he recovered quickly and stepped closer to the man, trying to make out his features under the hood.

"You were asking for me?" the figure intoned.

His robes were long and of rich fabric—dark blue trimmed with patterned gold, and his voice was deep and gravelly. For one ludicrous moment Henry half expected him to announce he was Batman. _Concentrate. This is two now-former Dark Ones interacting. Something here might be helpful for Mom._ The spinner felt his heart palpitate horribly.

 _ **By God's name, what am I doing? What right have I to control such a petrifying being? We should just run. I should just take Bae and—no, no, this is it. This is how I save Bae.**_

Trying to channel his terror into dominance, Rumplestiltskin waved the dagger in front of him, but even when he held it steady it shook in his grasp, "Submit, O Dark One! I control you!"

"Yes, you do. Wield the power wisely," Zoso looked at the man, trembling and silent, a hand on his leg to balance himself without his staff. A hint of derision entered his voice as the seconds drew by, "You can wield at any time now"

 _ **Do something. Say something. Don't fall.**_

"It's almost dawn. That means it's your son's birthday," the Dark One walked slowly closer, and Rumplestiltskin realised with growing alarm that whilst he may hold the dagger, he was by no means in control. _**This man can read minds, know all.**_ "I bet Hordor and his men are already on their way to your house"

 _Hordor is the name of the knight?_ Henry nearly fell through the Dark One trying to get a closer look at his face. He could make out strange blueish eyes and neat silver-grey stubble. In the flickering torchlight, something seemed to glimmer from within the hood, like the scales of a fish or serpent.

Rumplestiltskin blanched, "No, they can't take him"

Zoso leaned forward, his words twisting like snakes, "You don't control them—you control me. Have you ever wondered—was he really your child at all?"

 _ **No. No, no, stop.**_

"Unlike you, he's not a coward and yearns to fight and die in glory"

"No . . ." he spinner whimpered.

"What a poor bargain that would be—to lay down your soul to save your _bastard_ son," his gaze gleamed with satisfaction as the cripple's eyes watered, "So, I ask you—what would you have me do?"

Henry's mouth opened. He recognised the man.

 _ **For Bae. For my son.**_

Rumplestiltskin lunged forward, throwing back his arm and thrusting the dagger deep into the heart of the Dark One: "Die"

They struggled, falling falteringly to the ground—Zoso's back hitting the earth as his eyes widened. There was a strange sound, like the falling of a mask, and suddenly the Dark One's face was morphing, giving way to another.

Staring in horror, the spinner's subconscious identified the man before him. Zoso began to laugh—a wheezing, whistling cackle which reminded Henry of farmyards and meat markets. He'd recovered from the revelation far more quickly than his grandfather, and he was determined to glean something useful from this transition.

The boy stared hard at the dying man's mouth. He'd lost a tooth or two in the transformation. _Perhaps that's why Mr. Gold has a golden tooth. Dark Ones get dental?_ He shook his head, trying to focus. _More than that—they become entirely different looking? A kind of physical manifestation of the darkness?_

Whispering, Rumplestiltskin searched the man's face for anything that would contradict what he was seeing. "It's you. You're the beggar"

Zoso chuckled, "Looks like you made a deal you didn't understand. I don't think you're going to do that again"

 _ **But he told me where to find the dagger. Told me to take the power for myself.**_

"You told me to kill you"

The older man wheezed, "My life was such a burden. You'll see," he lowered his voice, "Magic _always_ comes with a price and now, it's yours to pay"

Rumplestiltskin's voice grew wilder, more fraught, "Why me? _Why_ me?"

"I know how to recognise a desperate soul" Zoso murmured, but his breathing stuttered, and his eyes began to glaze over as he closed them.

Henry knelt down with them, thinking aloud quietly, "You do, or the darkness does? My Mom was desperate to save Mom's happy ending, to stop the evil from consuming her . . ."

The spinner began to shake the man's body, utterly panicked, "No! No! Stay!" his voice rising in volume, "You have to tell me what to do! Tell me what to do!"

There was a strange noise, a slight moving in the atmosphere, and the spinner felt the skin of his right hand, still gripping the hilt of the dagger, begin to prickle. With a sharp intake of breath he saw the flesh had grown darker, corrupted.

Sitting back, Henry stared at his grandfather's hand, and then followed his gaze to the face of the former Dark One. _So this is how it normally happens—no whirling vortex of doom. Just a transformation of power from one person to another, contained within the dagger._

 _ **No, no, this curse mustn't kill me. I have to save Bae. It's nearly dawn.**_

The cripple pulled out the dripping, gore-stained blade, and to his revulsion saw that beneath the blood his own name had replaced Zoso's.

 _ **The true name of the Dark One. Rumplestiltskin.**_

Henry made to stand, but as he did something happened—the world span around him and the earth seemed to shift on its plates. He stumbled forward but was pulled back into a growing cyclone. It took a moment for him to realise that he wasn't in its centre. Rumplestiltskin was. _Are we skipping memories? Am I being pulled back to Storybrooke?_ The boy was thrown towards his grandfather, but in the moment before he landed everything rapidly went black, and as the breath left his body he used it to form the ghost of a word.

"Da—"

* * *

"—d"

Henry gasped in air, finishing the word as he fell to the ground. He blinked, trying to work out where he was and struggling in the dim light.

There was a _crash_ as a soldier knocked over a large wooden structure near his head. _A spinning wheel. I'm back at my Dad's house._ Through the window he could see the bright light of the morning. And there, standing in front of him, was Baelfire, staring down the knights as they grabbed him roughly and heaved him from the house. Henry scrambled to his feet, glancing round for his grandfather. _Where are you? They're taking my Dad!_ But he had to be close. _Surely, or my senses would have shut down by now. Unless . . . does the Dark One have heightened senses? Like Ruby during Wolf's time?_

The boy stepped blinking into the sunlight, and recognised at once the smirking voice of Hordor, leading the way.

"Everyone's watching from behind their curtains today"

"Gah!" the sudden rush of voices in Henry's head was almost painful, and he covered his ears automatically, his mind barrelled by a barrage of different tones almost impossible to distinguish, overlapping, yelling—frightened, angry, rising: _**KillhimhurthimBaeohBaetheywon'ttakeseekrevengeTHEYHURTYOUHUMILIATEDnonojustkeephimsafeYoukilledthatmanGoodbadpleasehehehepleasecanKillthemallSAVETHEBOYkillthefear—**_ the voices descended into a manic fit of giggles, but Henry thought he could hear the sound of sobbing at the back.

Without warning the guard in front of Hordor collapsed. Drawing the dagger out of the man's back with a wet, sucking noise, stood Rumplestiltskin. Apart from— _he's different now._ Under the hood it was still hard to tell, but now at least there was the benefit of daylight. The dark, glimmering scales of green which had coated his hand before seemed to have spread across the rest of his skin, and his eyes were reptilian, flecked with gold. But it was the look within them that was truly frightening.

 _No, he just killed a man without a second glance. And he looks so different. He can't have changed that quickly—it can't still be the same day._ But there were the soldiers, arriving to conscript Bae.

Seeing the cloak, the shimmer of serpentine skin and the dagger in hand, Hordor fell to his knees in deference, "Dark One"

Rumplestiltskin walked slowly towards him. Henry felt the voices rise and fall like waves, lapping over each other: maddening and indistinguishable. Only two phrases were uttered clearly enough to seem on a near-constant loop. _**Kill them all. Save the boy.**_

"No . . ." murmured Hordor, watching him in bewilderment. This man was shorter, slighter, his cloak like that of a peasant. Yet he held the dagger. He killed. "Who are you?"

Rumplestiltskin's voice was calm, deeper than before, and he made a pretence of being affronted, "Have you forgotten me already? What was it you used to call me again? . . . Spindleshanks?" He snapped his fingers, "Hobblefoot"

Henry moved to stand next to Bae. _Mr. Gold speaks like this—he calculates every word. He talks like the Dark One, not like a father._

"Papa?"

Behind the knight the spinner's boy looked on in disbelief, his eyes large. The Dark One dangled the dagger delicately in front of the knight, who seemed to be struggling to control his heart rate. The man's eyes grazed the engraving.

The answer was whispered, "Rumplestiltskin"

"Wonderful," replied the hooded figure, his voice soft, "And now, you shall know me as the new Dark One. How about a little fealty?" He extended his right leg—a leg which previously could only move with the assistance of a wooden staff—and carefully presented his foot to the knight, whose eyes widened in understanding even before the command came. "Kiss my boot"

Henry felt his stomach clench. He couldn't shake the feeling that the spinner wouldn't be content with just degradation for revenge.

Hordor hesitated for only a moment, before bending slowly forward to do as he was asked. _**Kiss my boot. The man who ran. Women do not—**_ The knight gave a half-choked gasp as Rumplestiltskin reached out, grasped the top of his head in a single, bony hand, and twisted. The man's neck snapped easily with a _crack_. _**Glorious.**_

Henry and Baelfire cried out simultaneously, "No, Papa!" "No! You can't!"

 _There must have been something else in him—something darker from the start. The darkness can't do this to him so quickly, because that would mean that Mom—that when we find her—_

But the Dark One was already moving, darting like a lizard between the guards, and thrusting the dagger deep into their stomachs. Before one had time to fall, another was already crying out in pain as the blade withdrew from their body. _**Kill them all.**_ With a grunt he slashed at the only remaining soldier, who fell from his horse, dark matter seeping from his side.

Henry faltered, stepping backwards. _But I saw him just a day ago. He was only a spinner: a father. Four days now, since she took the darkness on. She was a sheriff: a mother. Is. IS. What is she now?_

As the hooded Dark One stood, catching his breath, Bae stared at what remained of his father. Something in his voice was strange, a well of emotion making the words tumble, "Papa? What has happened to you?"

Rumplestiltskin's eyes were hidden behind the locks of his hair, glinting darkly, "You're safe, Bae". He began walking forward; a powerful stride had replaced his bow-shouldered limp, and he seemed to revel in the very act of walking tall, shoulders straight, "Do you feel safe, son?"

Baelfire backed away automatically, passing through Henry, looking through him to meet his father's eyes honestly, "No. I'm frightened"

The dagger dripped quietly with blood, and the Dark One's yellowed, rotting teeth were bared in a warped semblance of a smile, "I'm not. I protected what belongs to me"

 _ **Protect the boy.**_

Henry shivered at the words, but didn't drop his gaze from his grandfather's scaled face.

— _ **women do not like to be married to cowards . . .**_

"And I'm not scared of anything"

* * *

Henry wasn't aware of the world disappearing, of the darkness swooping in to obscure his vision—wasn't even aware of the sensation of tumbling—until suddenly it all stopped, and he stood in a forest, autumn leaves scattering the earth. Instinctively, he reached down to try to pick up a leaf. His hand passed straight through. _I'm still here. In a different memory? Why did it change? Dad . . ._

 _ **She tricked me. Traded my happiness for a cup of water. But I will know. And I will kill her.**_

He heard a crunching of foliage underfoot, and span around to see Rumplestiltskin walking towards him. _He looks different. Again._ The scales and rotted teeth were still there, but he carried himself differently—his coat was a rich red fabric. His eyes were haunted.

Falling into step with his grandfather, the boy allowed himself a moment's respite from trying to mentally record every detail around him.

 _How long is this taking? I'd better not wake up and be in my thirties. I'd do anything for a hamburger. I wish Granny's did deliveries to impossible places._

 _ **She was here.**_

He looked up to find that they were entering a clearing, in which a small fire burned. Rumplestiltskin reached a hand out over the fire, though whether he was enjoying the heat or checking for traces of magic, Henry couldn't tell. The maddening chorus of voices that had previous rampaged through his grandfather's mind seemed to have been separated, like strands of string within a rope—they were clearer now, but quieter too. More content. They were being fed.

"I've been expecting you"

The Dark One gave a slight start, matching Henry's own reaction. But he jumped harder when he saw the speaker. A young woman with tumbling russet curls stepped out from behind a tree, her ragged dress trailing in the leaves. But her face . . . _Gross does not begin to describe this._ Her eyes were sewn shut in rough stiches which led up across the left side of her forehead, giving her the appearance of a broken rag doll poorly fixed. And her hands—she held out a palm and Henry had to practically pinch himself to accept that that was where her eyes were really kept. They blinked, bright blue, beneath her fingers. _Maybe it was worth watching all those botched bodies documentaries with Mom during that fake year, if only to prevent me from vomiting within a memory now._

 _ **The Seer from the cage.**_

"Then you know exactly why I came here"

Henry drew closer to the fire. Rumplestiltskin's voice seemed higher now, and he raised his hands theatrically, turning to face the Seer, who was circling him from behind.

"What I foretold during the Ogres War has finally come to pass," her voice was deep and clear, like a well, and seemed to enclose them from all around, rather than follow a direct line of travel.

Rumplestiltskin gave a short laugh, but there was no humour in his expression, "Well, in a manner of speaking," he began to reverse the game—to circle the Seer, gesticulating almost melodramatically with his hands as he listed the events which Henry had, for the most part, not been witness to, "I, uh, hobbled myself on the battlefield. Was branded a coward. My wife—ran away and left me. Then, my son was called to the front. Oh!" he paused behind the young woman, his voice rising slightly, almost child-like, but with none of a child's innocence, "Then I became The Dark One. Then, Bae left me. So, yes. My actions on the battlefield left my son fatherless. But . . ." anger burned behind his eyes, and he spoke a little louder, "it would've been nice to know about all that pesky de-tail!"

The Seer turned her head calmly, "Knowing would not have made a difference. You still would have been powerless to escape your fate"

 _ **Powerless. No power. No**_ **power.**

Rumplestiltskin gave a gargling, high-pitched giggle, as he paced away from her, "Just . . . like . . . you," he span around, raising a hand to hold her in a magical chokehold.

The Dark One's voice had returned to its natural, deeper pitch, "Now you know _exactly_ why I came here"

The Seer managed to croak out a response, "You want to find your son"

 _ **Bae.**_

 _Dad . . ._

"Indeed," Rumplestiltskin squeaked, releasing her with a flourish.

The young woman dragged breath back into her lungs, and then straightened, raising her hands in a series of careful movements as Henry and his grandfather watched, uncertain. When she brought her hands down, the eyes opened on her palms. They began rolling upward as she whispered, "You _will_ find him"

 _ **Oh, Bae.**_

The dark sorcerer rolled out an impatient hand gesture, "How?" he pointed at her meaningfully, "And this time, don't leave out a single de-tail"

The Seer continued to press her palms against different points in the air—almost like a mime in a box, Henry considered—as she breathed raggedly, "It will not be an easy path. It will take many years . . . and require a curse". The auburn-haired woman raised her hands to the sky, and they shook as her voice trembled, "A curse . . . powerful enough to rip everyone from this land"

 _ **Yes.**_

Henry's eyes widened. _Mom's curse?_

The Dark One was listening intently and when she fell silent, his impatience spilled over, "Yes, yes, there's more, I know it. Tell me"

The Seer thrust her hands straight out, "You will not cast the curse . . . Someone else will. And you will not break the curse . . . Someone else will," she shuddered, and ceased her movements.

 _ **Allies . . .? No, not allies. Puppets.**_

 _My Moms. He used both my Moms? Regina didn't just cast the curse because she was the Evil Queen? And Emma didn't break it because she was the Saviour? He planned_ everything _? He_ used _them both?_

"Tell me!" Rumplestiltskin commanded as the young woman fell silent again.

"I don't know," the Seer admitted shakily, "Even my powers have limits"

 _ **No.**_

Rumplestiltskin waved a finger, as if he were a teacher reprimanding an insolent child, "Ah, ah, ah. Not good enough, dearie". With a thrust of his hand she gasped out once again as the coils of his magic began to stifle her windpipe.

The Seer croaked, "If you want to see the path you must take, there is only one way," she offered her hands to him, palms facing the sky, "Take this burden from me"

He considered a moment, but his eyes were already alight with— _hope? Greed?_

 _ **For Bae. All for Bae.**_

"Mmm, gladly," he agreed, slapping his palms down onto hers.

As their skin touched, a white light burst from the contact, and the Seer screamed in agony. Rumplestiltskin's eyes rolled back and his face was buffeted with the force of the magic, billowing against him. Henry covered his ears again, fruitlessly trying to avoid the sudden incomprehensible explosion of thoughts. The Dark One's smile soon faded, along with the Seer's shrieks.

"I can't . . . see . . . anything," he panted, "It's too much. It's nothing but a jumble"

 _ **No room. No room!**_

"The future is a puzzle with many pieces to be sorted," she said, and her voice seemed to bring him back a little to reality. He stared at their hands and the emitting white light as she continued, "In time, you will learn to separate what can be, from what will be"

 _ **Tricked. Fooled again.**_

Abruptly, Rumplestiltskin let go and the Seer was projected backward, hitting the ground hard. Henry watched as his grandfather growled in menace.

"This is why you wanted to give me your power. To free yourself from this torment"

The young woman's hair was spread over the leaves, reminding Henry of a painting he'd seen in school of a maiden who'd floated through a river in medieval legend. _The Lady of Shalott? Or was it Ophelia?_ There was something ethereal about the woman. Her breath seemed to be fading, her voice soft, "In time, you will work it all out"

 _ **I've all the time in the world, dearie. I will not fail.**_

Rumplestiltskin turned slightly, as if to leave, but the Seer called out to him, raising a hand.

"Wait. As gratitude, I offer you one piece of the puzzle," she waved her palm through the air.

 _She still has Seer abilities. He broke off the connection too soon._

"You will be reunited with your son, and it will come in a most unexpected way," she breathed.

Rumplestiltskin had drawn closer, and there was something very delicate in his eyes, even as he snarled a prompt, his rotten teeth bared in the light, "How?"

 _You and Mom and I go to Manhattan. We take a plane. Given where you are now, that counts as unexpected, right?_

"A boy . . . A young boy will lead you to him"

 _ **A boy?**_

 _Huh._ Henry smiled. _That must be me. I'm in the prophecy. And it came true! Awesome._

"But beware, Rumplestiltskin, for that boy is more than he appears"

Henry's smile faded slightly. _Well, I did become the Author._

"He will lead you . . . to what you seek. But there will be a price"

 _ **All magic comes with a price.**_

Shivering, Henry stepped back from the fire slightly, locking his eyes onto his grandfather's face. _This doesn't sound right. This is—_

"The boy . . . will be your undoing"

As the Seer's hand fell to the ground, the blue eye within it closing gently, Henry gave a sharp intake of breath. He could feel his heart battering against his rib-cage.

 _ **No matter. A boy for my boy.**_

Rumplestiltskin bent briefly to stare at her limp body, before raising a nonchalant hand.

"Then I'll just have to kill him"

* * *

" _Then I'll just have to kill him"_

Henry gasped awake; his heart thudded painfully loudly, and he could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he flinched out.

"Henry? Henry! David, he's awake"

The young boy felt warm hands on his shoulders, and he blinked the faces of his grandparents into clarity. _He's going to kill me_.

The pendant dropped to the floor, and the already cracked glass shattered. He struggled for a moment against the embraces of Mary Margaret and David, panicking, but the heat of their bodies felt so real, so solid compared to that memory world, he couldn't help but soften into them slightly.

"I'm sorry," he began, realising that his voice was rasping, his body dehydrated, "I—", but he broke off, suddenly unsure of how much to tell them. David ran a hand through his grandson's hair and, unable to hear the words mumbled into his jumper, he knelt to look Henry in the eyes, only to find that the boy's gaze was now a good foot above him. _My, he has grown_. _Have the last few months really been so crazy that I've not noticed my grandson become a teenager?_

"Did you get them?" Mary Margaret asked softly, "Did you see all of his memories? Or find something that might help Emma?" Her voice was gentle, but there was a layer of desperation that she couldn't quite mask.

"How long have I been . . .?"

"Almost fourteen hours. We waited outside until we saw you'd started it, like you asked, but then, well, we wanted to be sure you were OK," David's smile was apologetic.

Henry noticed the empty coffees cups lining the windowsill, and hoped he hadn't spoken in his— _sleep? Dream? Vision, perhaps?_

"What did you see?" Snow prompted, her eyes filled with worry, and circled by rings of exhaustion.

"I saw . . ." _I'll tell them the truth._ "I saw Rumplestiltskin with my dad, and they were trying to get out of town so my dad—Neal, Baelfire—wouldn't be recruited in a war, but when that didn't work a beggar, who was actually the Dark One before him—before Mr. Gold—tricked him into stealing the dagger and killing him—killing the beggar that is, so he'd take on the darkness instead. Then I saw Rumplestiltskin as the Dark One the next morning, killing all the guards who were going to take his son. I guess I jumped a few memories, because . . ." _If I tell them about the prophecy—about what Mr. Gold said there's no way they'll let me near him. I have to continue this project and figure out where my Mom is, and how to help her._

David laid a hand on Henry's shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze, "Because?"

"Because then he was visiting a Seer, who told him that he would find his son again. He took her powers and then . . ." _Most of the truth._ "I woke up," Henry looked up at the adults. _If I will them to believe something, and I have the heart of the truest believer, does that make it more likely that they will?_

Mary Margaret's face clouded, but it took a moment for Henry to understand why.

"So the first thing Rumplestiltskin did when he became the Dark One," David said slowly, "was to kill everyone who threatened his son?"

"Emma would never do that," Mary Margaret stated staunchly, "She would find another way to help her loved ones. She'd never just murder—she's _nothing_ like him," her voice grew tighter and smaller, "She's good".

Henry picked up the smashed pendant from the floor, careful not to touch the broken glass. _Maybe every Dark One starts off good._ He glanced at where Mr. Gold lay, unchanged and immobile. _I didn't see all that much of him as a peasant, but Rumplestiltskin didn't seem to be a villain craving power before the dagger. He just seemed like a man driven to desperation. A desperate soul._

"I want to try it again," he said quietly.

"What? No, Henry. There's got to be a better, a faster way to help Emma. We can't just trudge around in Gold's memories—they are nothing alike, we're wasting our—"

"What your grandmother means," David interjecting with a quick glance at his wife's haunted expression, "is not now. You need some rest kiddo. How about a burger at Granny's? We've got fifteen minutes till it closes, and then you need to go conk out".

"I am pretty hungry," the young boy admitted, coiling the pendant and its chain into a circle on the cabinet. They turned to leave and he bid a quick mental farewell to Mr. Gold. _Tomorrow, we'll try again tomorrow_. _I'll text Belle. Tonight I'll write._

With a final glance at the fine pieces of glass scattered on the floor, a thought he'd tried hard to suppress arose. _If he doesn't kill me, then that means the prophecy comes true._

 _I kill my grandfather_.

* * *

 **A.N. – Thanks very much for reading so far! This is the first time I've done this, so please do review and let me know what you think. Next up is the first part of 'The Beauty and the Cripple', in which we learn that Henry can't return to the realm of his grandfather's memories, and we venture forth into the world beyond the town line. This story works in sections, some with multiple chapters/parts.**


	3. The Beauty and the Cripple - 1 of 3

**The Beauty and the Cripple - [Part 1 of 3]**

With a start Henry awoke, to find his vision partially obscured by a peculiar patch of white. Groggily, he reached a hand up to rub his eyes, and discovered that he had a piece of paper stuck to his forehead.

"Mmm," the boy groaned, becoming dimly aware that he was sitting at his desk in the loft _. I guess that would explain why my back aches so much._ With a barely repressed sigh he glanced at the clock. 4:15 am. He looked down and re-read his latest sentence. _'Rumplestiltskin stumbled through the woods toward a clearing'. . . .Well, I'm hardly the next Grimm, but at least it makes sense._ It was difficult enough writing himself out of the story. He ran a finger carefully over the bumpy indentations of the biro ink scrawled into the thick paper, before closing the book with a thump. _There's so much more still to record._

Under his hand the black linen and heavily embossed silver lettering seemed to thrum with energy, though it was more likely his own ragged pulse as his young body begged for sleep. He'd promised Gramps and Grandma Snow that he would jump straight into bed after their almost wordless dinner at Granny's; during which he'd been largely preoccupied with wolfing down a double cheeseburger in less than five minutes, as Ruby swept the floor and shot meaningful glances at the diner's clock. He hadn't kept his promise, nor intended to. _I might not have a magic quill yet, or a new book from the Sorcerer's house, but that doesn't mean I'm just going to let myself fall asleep and forget what I saw. And heard._ The boy frowned, an unpleasant sinking feeling in his stomach. He took no pleasure in lying, but there was no way he could tell anyone about the prophecy—not even Belle. Not if he wanted Operation Dart-Frog to make it out of the starting box.

Pushing the large book away from him, Henry arched his back and stretched, before straightening suddenly. _But I did fall asleep._ He ran through Gold's memories quickly in his mind, surprised to find whenever he tested himself that he could still recall each action, each word and even the smells and sounds that had surrounded them at the time. _Perhaps . . . perhaps because I experienced it all as Grandpa Gold did, I can remember it as well as if it were a memory of my own? Better, even? Like a double memory: a dream within a dream. Hmm, maybe Gramps was right—sleep might not be the worst idea._ As the boy clambered into bed a quiet, perfectly nonchalant voice came unbidden into the back of his mind. "Then I'll just have to kill him". The bedsheets were cold, but it wasn't the temperature which made Henry shiver.

 _He's known for ages though, he would have remembered ever since the curse broke—Mr. Gold's had plenty of chances to—to . . ._ Henry realised that he was grasping the edge of the mattress rather tightly, and very deliberately relaxed his grip, trying to stop his brain from going into overdrive. _He wouldn't hurt me—I'm his grandson. I'm all he has left of my Dad. Of Baelfire._ The minutes passed and as the boy hovered on the edge of sleep, a new thought rose half-formed at the back of his mind, and lingered. _Perhaps there is someone I can tell._

* * *

Belle checked her phone. 4:17 am. Still no reply.

She'd been unable to sit still since she'd seen Henry's text, and that was hours ago now—yesterday, in fact. The librarian had responded immediately, _'Granny's 10am? No big leads re: quill yet. Belle x'_. After an hour of waiting for another response, including leaving two rambling voicemails, she'd taken to pacing. Rumple always paced when he was anxious, in spite of—perhaps specifically to spite—his ankle. She rubbed the base of her ring finger subconsciously, as if twisting an imaginary wedding band. The real ring she had long since removed. Burying it had been intended to bring her closure. _He betrayed you, he's gone, and he's not coming back._ But instead her hand was plagued with a phantom ring—an incessant itching which ensured that its absence was perpetually felt. One night she'd even woken up sweating, having dreamt that the thing had crawled up from its earthy grave, and was rolling along the streets of Storybrooke to find her.

"I won't be able to come back". That's what he'd said, pleading as his feet drew him helplessly toward the town line, inadvertently admitting more deceptions—he'd known, then, that he would have been permanently exiling his wife and grandson, had his plan succeeded. _Another lie, in the end._ He'd come back. Not only that, he'd brought with him the two—no, the three women, who had once kidnapped and threatened to kill her. Her expression softened slightly, but after a moment she hardened her heart. The first time he'd saved her and, it turned out, the first time he'd deceived her. The first of the countless times he'd chosen power over her.

Belle shivered and stopped pacing for a moment to pull on a thick jacket, taking comfort in the soft mauve fabric. Her little apartment above the library wasn't really lengthy or straight enough to pace for long without getting dizzy anyway. She rested a hand on the mantelpiece. Feeling cold porcelain unexpectedly at her fingertips, she glanced up at the bunch of wildflowers, overflowing from their vase. _Will._

"Picked 'em meself, fresh from the forest," he'd said mere hours before, presenting them to her with his usual honest smile and lack of ceremony, "No roses this time, some other bugger musta given the briar a right go—plucked it clean". Belle hadn't the heart to postpone seeing him for the fourth day in a row. She'd been silent and preoccupied throughout their makeshift picnic dinner, hadn't even bothered to tidy up the piles of books she'd been scanning through, vainly searching for mention of enchanted quills. Finally he'd coaxed the news from her. Rumple had a white heart. A white heart meant a blank page: an identity wiped clean. Henry had a plan for filling in those blanks, perhaps even was, right now—as they dined on poached rabbit from the forest—treading through Rumple's memories. Restoring them. Working to wake him.

"Bleedin' 'ell," Will grimaced at the notion of strolling through the Dark One's recollections, "I don't envy the lad—he won't exactly be prancing through the meadows with bloody unicorns, will he?"

"I have to help him," Belle had murmured softly, staring at her untouched plate.

He'd eyed her thoughtfully, his expression hard to read. "So," he'd said eventually, his voice quiet, "am I righ' to assume that ya ain't just doing this outta that er, generic benevolence heroes are supposed to 'ave? Ya wan' him . . ." he'd been going to add "awake" or "alive", but by trailing off he effectively asked the same question.

Belle had sighed, her eyes and her mind tired: unsure what to say. _I don't love you, Will—it's not true love, or even close, but it is . . . nice, simple. Authentic. You've been there for me in a way no one else could be. We understand each other. We both know what it's like to come in second place to power._ Belle hesitated. _He deserves the truth._ She'd pushed the food around her plate with a fork, her gaze downcast, "When Regina—when she, uh, took my heart, I felt this terrible, perplexing, inexplicable emptiness. I only realised when Rumple . . . you and Rumple returned it to me that I'd been missing something—my ability to truly love," she raised her eyes briefly, watching the haunted shadows that passed through his, "So when I thought that he had lost that—that, uh, speck of red—that it was trapped in the hat or . . . something, I promised myself I'd return it to him, if I could"

Will had given her a serious look, "Aye, I can understan' tha'," he tore a bread roll in two, offering her half, "An' now tha' it's a memory game? No-one would blame ya for leaving the martyr-ish promises there," his tone had been light, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

Belle's shoulders had slumped slightly, "I know better than most what it feels like to lose your memories—your identity. And each time it happened, or nearly happened to me, Rumple was the one who brought me back," confusion lingered at the edge of her lips, "He stopped my father from sending me across the town line, and later, after Hook . . . after I did fall across the line, he didn't give up. Kept trying to bring me back." Something ached slightly within her. True Love's Kiss. _I screamed._ The chipped cup. _I smashed it against the wall . . . He kept the pieces_. "And when Rumple lay dying, even though he knew that he was a stranger to me, he phoned to uh, to tell me who I was," she took a deep breath, trying not to let her voice shake, "And when I became Lacey he—he changed himself too, kept adapting to try to make me remember, wouldn't let me. . ." she shook her head slightly, cheeks reddening, "Then when Regina had my heart, she made me forget what I, uh, what I'd _said_ to him, and the both of you restored that to me". Belle tried again to suppress a blush as she recalled that those words designed to wound Rumple, to toy with him, had involved Will.

The thief hadn't said anything, his frank gaze resting on his hands, which were tearing little pieces of bread from the roll.

"So," eventually Belle had cleared her throat, "I don't owe him much—after everything he did, I don't owe him—"

"Love?" Will had asked suddenly, his voice low.

"Forgiveness," her tone had been careful _. Love isn't something to owe; it's something to give willingly, a mystery to be unwrapped . . . though perhaps in some cases better left in its packaging._ "But I don't think I could rest easy knowing that his memories could have been restored, and I didn't—didn't do for him what I know he would do for me". _Has done for me. So many times._ She'd folded her hands in her lap. _And I have to know—when I asked him on the shop floor why it wasn't enough, when he used the words which I last heard in the Dark Castle . . ._

With a sigh Belle pushed herself away from the mantelpiece abruptly and resumed her pacing. _Am I being a fool again? I banished him once to protect Storybrooke from his lies. If we manage to wake him . . . I don't know who he'll be._

She found herself at the largest of her bookcases, and after a moment reached a hand up to the furthest corner of the top shelf, retrieving three books, one after the other. _Anna Karenina. Romeo and Juliet. The Bell-Jar._ Together they felt heavy in her arms, but she didn't put them down, just stared at the covers. _I believed once that these stories would have happy endings—that love would win out. But now I've read the endings . . . I know how it goes. Suicide. Poison. Madness._ Lip trembling, the brunette sank down to lay the tomes gently on the floor. _I always thought I could see the good in people. I never realised how important it is to keep an eye on the darkness too._ Breath held, she carefully opened the sky-blue leather cover of Shakespeare's tragedy. The book fell open at the third act. _It's still here._ Belle eased the folded letter carefully out from between the pages, and turned it over in her hand.

At the time, it had been one of her lowest moments. One week on from banishing Rumple, and she was still just as much of a mess as she'd been that night—when she'd turned away to avoid watching him disappear out of her life. _Like any wound, if you don't look at it, it's not real,_ she'd thought. _It can't hurt you._ She'd holed up here in the dark, ignoring the pounding on the door from heroes who wanted answers, surviving on tea and tinned soup; a small part of her—perhaps her cursed self—wishing that she had something stronger, but shunning the idea of venturing into the outside world. She'd tried to cheer herself up, to read and take herself away in the stories. But the only books which had eased the guilt and the ache of the betrayal, manipulation and bitter disappointment had been the tragedies. _An ugly catharsis._ Yet what she really feared was giving in, doing what so many of the women in these texts seemed to. Going after him. Settling for being second best. _I lost my way trying to help him find his. Never again._ So, sitting with her back against the wall in a corner of her apartment, Belle had written the beast a letter. It didn't matter that he was never going to read it—she was out of tears, and needed to pour out everything she felt, to list the ways he'd wronged her, to see it in writing and, perhaps, give herself the closure she needed to move on. And now . . . _now I will help him because it's the right thing to do. I won't let him die alone, but I'm not going to give him my life again._ Confusing and heart-wrenching as it was, she couldn't be his strength anymore if she wanted to be strong for herself. _During the day I'll help him, and in the night I'll read this and remember._ She began to unfold the paper, running a finger along its creases.

A loud beep made her jump. Heart palpitating, Belle shoved the letter in a pocket and lunged for her phone.

5:02 am. Henry. _'Actually, maybe not Granny's. There's someone who doesn't know about Operation Dart-Frog yet'_.

As she read the rest of the text, Belle's eyes watered, though whether from exhaustion or empathy she didn't know.

* * *

From a respectful distance, curled up on a bench with a flask of tea and her thick mauve jacket over her wool dress, Belle watched as the boy reached out a hand to touch the cool grey stone. She drew in a deep breath of the cold morning air, felt it cleanse her lungs. It would be so much less painful to spend time with Henry if he took after his grandfather a little less. The last time she'd been here, she'd been waiting at almost the same distance. But that day it had been Rumple kneeling at the grave.

She drew her gaze away, not wanting to invade the privacy of the animated, if one-sided, discussion between father and son. Instead Belle roamed her eyes over the freshly mown grass, the patch where the snowbells grew, the surrounding headstones. She had plenty to think about. On the walk over to the churchyard Henry had given her a rundown of what he'd seen and experienced, and she was still digesting the image of an impoverished peasant Rumple, spinning in a hovel with his son. _Perhaps the Dark One didn't just spin to forget—perhaps also he span to remember: his humble beginnings, his boy._ The gaunt cripple and the village coward. Images hard to reconcile with the beast in the Dark Castle and the self-assured Mr. Gold that Storybrooke knew. _Hmm._ Belle was an astute reader, of people and books alike, and she'd gotten the impression that Henry had rather skipped over his grandfather's encounter with the knight. Maybe to spare her feelings. But, as he reminded her, she'd have the version in full when he finished writing it. A biography, of sorts. _There's so much I don't know about him, so much he wouldn't speak about, even when we were married._

She glanced down at her battered notepad, in which she'd begun to jot down the rules of memory-walking, as best as she could glean them. With so little information available about the subject, the researcher in her got a small kick out of seeing the facts written down in her own neat hand. _'1) You cannot change a memory. You can interact with objects/buildings but if you attempt to move them you pass through. 2) You can only sleep when the owner of the memory does. 3) If you leave the area to which the memory extends, your senses fade. [What happens if you persist in leaving the memory-owner? Currently unknown]. 4) Time and place of memories vary [not necessarily chronological?]. 5) Memories can be skipped, transition brief - not painful. 6) Can experience hunger and tiredness but not pain [i.e. burning], potentially only what your actual body is experiencing [?]'_  
Belle chewed on the top of her pen thoughtfully, and added another note. _'7) Time passage rules uncertain. 14 hours real time – approx. 28 memory time, but may be coincidence? [Note to Henry - wear watch next time!]'._

She looked up to find with a jump that the boy was beckoning to her. Gathering her flask and her notes, the brunette made her way across the churchyard. She cast a sad glance down at the tombstone. _Hey Neal._ She'd been one of the last people to see him before—before he passed away. Had been the one to track down the meaning behind the strange insignia burned into his palm. Had, indeed, witnessed it being burnt into his flesh, not that she knew it at the time.

"Thanks for waiting Belle," Henry smiled at her for a moment, but it wasn't long before his expression clouded, "I have some not so good news"

Belle frowned slightly, confused. _Surely not news from beyond the grave?_ Communicating with the deceased wasn't exactly commonplace.

"It's Sunday," the boy disclosed, and when this news failed to make an impact on the librarian he continued, "They're re-opening the school, now that they're pretty sure my Mom isn't in our world . . . you know, with the darkness. Tomorrow's Monday," he kicked a stone with a frustrated glance, "I phoned Mom this morning, and she says I have to go"

Seeing Belle's face fall, he tried for humour, "Apparently having your Mom become the living embodiment of darkness and disappear into a vortex doesn't mean you can cut math"

 _If we only have a couple of hours each day, at a push, this could take weeks. And we've no idea how many memories are required, nor do we have a pen to start actually rec—_

"I'm free all of today though," Henry's voice cut into her thoughts, and he seemed buoyed by a new sense of determination. Or perhaps by the desire to potentially see his dad again. "It takes less time to write out the memories than it does to experience them, so I figured that I'd head—"

"Back to the hospital," the brunette finished for him. She hesitated, knowing how important it was to track down answers about the author's quill. But her natural curiosity and researcher's instinct got the better of her, "Henry, would you mind if I came with you, to uh, observe? Perhaps it might give us some kind of clue about how we can make the most of our time in the memories?"

Henry gave her a thoughtful side glance, "Like having someone at the end of the rope, in a rescue mission?" he smiled, and then tried not to think about Emma descending into a collapsed mine to save him. "Yeah, good idea, Grandma"

Before she could correct him, or even decide whether or not to correct him, the lad had already given Bae's grave a farewell smile and started walking. In her three-inch black leather pumps and short knit-flare skirted dress Belle followed him, shaking her head. _Grandma, indeed._

* * *

As Henry slung down his backpack and retrieved the pendant, Belle struggled to wrench her gaze away from the man she'd once believed she knew better than anyone else in the world. He looked different somehow; dwarfed by the hospital bed and tubes, perhaps. He seemed . . . _frailer? More human? Older?_ No, it was more than that. She frowned at him, unable to decide if it was a missing entity, or whether there was something there that hadn't been there before. At least he had his own room—the portion of Mr. Gold in him would no doubt have found sharing a ward with the common rabble somewhat distasteful. Henry had seemed to find it slightly amusing that both his grandfathers had now used the same bed for their respective comas.

The bruise marks on Rumple's arms had started to fade. A pirate's fingertips. She'd deliberately failed to mention a few of the more . . . eventful events in the first three days spent by her former husband's bedside. _Former . . ._ She was slightly surprised that the ever-perceptive Henry hadn't noticed her transition back to calling Killian 'Hook' again. But then boy did have a lot on his mind.

"I think there should be enough dust, but I added some more just in case"

Belle nodded, her notebook in her lap, pen poised to take notes. They'd synchronised their watches, bought a cereal bar from the hospital vending machine to see if food would travel across, and agreed that if he didn't wake naturally by 6pm, she would try to bring Henry back to his body from this side. All set.

"Good luck," Belle murmured as the boy raised his palm carefully above his grandfather's arm.

With a slight nod, Henry took a breath and lowered his hand.

A moment passed, and Belle shifted in her seat slightly, watching as Henry's eyes blinked back open, "How, uh, how long does it normally take?"

The boy looked down at the necklace, his brow furrowed, "I don't understand"

The librarian shivered— _he looks so like Rumple when he's confused._

"You said you dropped it yesterday?" Belle prompted after a moment, racking her brain for any knowledge of how 'connecting items' functioned, and drawing a frustrating blank, "Maybe it got damaged? Or perhaps you can't use the same item twice?"

Henry's face brightened, and he dove back into his rucksack, "I thought of that actually," he took out a crumpled white serviette. "This is that, eh, that napkin I told you about," he explained with a slightly embarrassed smile, "I brought it as back-up"

Belle nodded, trying not to smile too obviously, "Right"

Sprinkling a generous pinch of dust into the curve of the napkin, the boy took his seat again, took a breath, and raised his hand above Rumple's. "Come on," he whispered, and dropped his hand purposefully, their skin connecting with a soft _thwap_. Still nothing.

Seeing his disheartenment, the brunette jumped up and began pacing, thinking aloud to fill the dejected silence. "OK, we must be doing something wrong. Don't panic—we just need to think . . . let's go through what we know, what Regina and Astrid could tell us". She briefly wished she could call the fairy, but she wasn't even sure that the sweet, scatter-minded nun owned a phone.

Henry sighed, and seemed to be taking his failure to heart, "This is all my fault. It's probably because some force, somewhere, has realised I'm not cut out to be an Author," he ran a hand through his hair, repressing a frustrated groan, "I mean, when you're recording the stories of real people you actually know, and you have to look up synonyms in a thesaurus online, that's hardly a good sign, right?" he turned to stand at the window, "And even if we can get it working again, there's still the pen to figure out. The longer this takes . . ." he didn't need to finish his sentence. Emma was still out there, somewhere. Alone. Vulnerable to the darkness.

"Hey," Belle put a steady hand on his shoulder, giving him a resilient smile, "We'll figure something out. Maybe there are different ways to extract memories—we never asked Astrid about that. And when we do get the pen working, everything will go faster. Remember what Regina told you? Memories are like webs—they can trigger each other, they're connected like threads in a . . ."

She exhaled softly. _Dreamcatcher._

"Pongo"

In didn't take long for Belle to explain her plan, and for him to devise one of his own. She'd go straight to the shop, and find the dreamcatcher that Emma and Gold had used to extract the dalmation's memories. The librarian confirmed she'd even seen it recently, while she was sorting out the inventory with Will. And Henry would walk over to his Mom's place, ask for her help in working the feathered web, and figure out if she knew of any reason for the dust to fail. They'd call each other when they were ready to resume Operation Dart-Frog.

Seeing the spark of optimism and perseverance return to Henry's eyes, Belle felt a stab of anxiety. _I hope my hunch is right, and it works, for his sake as much as mine._

* * *

No matter how softly she opened the door, the bell would give its familiar tinkle, bringing back a flood of memories both pleasant and painful. Belle grimaced at the irony of having her emotional resilience so frequently thwarted by a golden bell, of all things. It took her a moment to realise that the shop door hadn't actually been locked, despite the closed sign facing outward and the apparent lack of human life inside. _I really need to have a word with the others—they may need easy access for their investigations into finding Emma, but surely they know there's powerful magic in here?_

Heels clicking on the floor, and trying not to take in how much dust had gathered in the last half-week, Belle pushed aside the curtain into the back room, and walked over to the dark mahogany cupboard. But when she opened the large doors, her face fell. _I was so sure it was here._ She frowned, and quickly searched the shelves with her hands as well as her eyes, in case some kind of cloaking item had accidentally come into contact with it. _Nothing._ She fetched the inventory cards that she and Will had been making, and sure enough the little note in her own writing confirmed its intended location. _Huh. I guess they must have moved it in their searches—another thing to have a little word about._

Getting down on her hands and knees, she decided to start searching from the bottom of the shop upwards, scanning the shelves for any hint of thread or feathers.

But it wasn't long before she froze, her blue eyes wide. They were locked on a small, plain black box. _I should hardly be surprised, I'm the one who put it there._ It had been weeks since she'd last looked at it. One little glance couldn't hurt, especially now that she had her heart back, and was feeling everything so much more keenly for having experienced the difference. Surely she would just recall the miserable agony of betrayal when she saw it again, and that would strengthen her resolve to help Rumple, but to not give in to their poisonous, soul-destroying version of love.

With trembling fingers Belle drew the box out from its shadowy corner, and gently prised off the lid. Her lips parted, and she felt her breath catch. _Our chipped cup._ Carefully, cradling it in her palms, Belle ran a thumb over the familiar jagged edge. But instead of dredging up anger or desolation, seeing it again made her think of her father. Several weeks after exiling Rumple from Storybrooke, when she was finally picking up the pieces of her broken heart and building a life for herself, she'd started spending time with him again. And while Moe hadn't said the inevitable "I told you so" out loud in so many words, he'd readily listed all the ways she was better off without "that—that beast". Among them she'd discovered that her former husband had terrorised, kidnapped and even hospitalised her father, all over "some worthless trinket". At the time she hadn't pressed the matter, preoccupied by the horrifying notion of Rumple beating Moe. But now . . . _is this what he was talking about?_ If so, she needed to drop in to 'Game of Thorns' and get the full story sometime soon. She raised the porcelain to her lips, like a child at a make-believe tea party, imagining that she was back in the Dark Castle. _He always wanted his tea in this one despite, or rather, as she later realised, precisely because of its fault._ She sighed softly. _Over the years, between the realms, it's always connected us._

Belle sat up straighter, a new idea surfacing in her mind. _Surely it couldn't hurt to try?_

* * *

Sitting beside his hospital bed, with a teacup covered in something a bit more exciting than the dust crockery traditionally gathered, Belle stared with sad confusion at the lips of her former lover. _I don't know what to feel anymore._ That first night after the Apprentice had removed the darkness, when the nurses had finished fussing around him, and they were left alone, she'd found herself looking at him and replaying in her mind the various adventures and incidents they'd had in the Enchanted Forest together. It had taken her till dawn to work out what she'd earnestly believed could be the answer. He'd recover, his heart would be healed "if the strength is there," the old man had said. _I am his strength_ , she'd realised. _True Love's Kiss._

She had been afraid; wanting to wake him, to help, but not wanting to put herself back on the treacherous path their romance had taken. _What if I lose my way again? Gain him but lose myself?_ Eventually she'd summoned some vestige of courage—she'd do the brave thing: the kiss didn't have to mean anything beyond waking him. _But can True Love's Kiss work if it means nothing?_ She'd leant down, her heart in her mouth, and kissed Rumplestiltskin. Nothing had happened. The shock and disappointment had been almost unbearable. _He doesn't love me . . . or I . . . I don't love him._ But then—at the convent, learning that he didn't have his memories . . .

"Everything alright, Belle?"

The brunette jumped. She'd not even noticed Dr Whale enter the room. Instinctively she covered the teacup with her hands.

"Oh, I uh, I didn't see you come in," she admitted, flustered.

"Just doing some stat checks," he gave her a weak smile, "At least you're not asleep like the poor Mills boy. We had to work around him for practically all of yesterday, but it's hard to argue with the Charmings when they insist someone needs to stay asleep," he nodded confidentially, "Tact is not one of Mr. Nolan's strong points"

"Ah, right. About that—" she began, trying to find a succinct way to describe Operation Dart-Frog.

He gave a slight laugh, "Not to worry, not to worry—the wife, Mary Margaret, explained eventually. Memory walking. Very pioneering of you. Of course, in my line of work we look to Freud for that kind of thing. Gets terribly messy, if you must know"

"Right . . ." she looked at the doctor, waiting for him to move or do . . . something. He seemed to be staring at her necklace. Struggling to fill the silence, she asked, "And uh, you haven't had any more incidences here? Since, uh, since—"

"Since the pirate with the eyeliner came to rip out all our equipment? No, no, all clear," he chuckled.

Belle nodded, uncomfortable under his lukewarm gaze. After a moment she shrugged back on her thick jacket under the pretence of feeling cold.

"Right," Whale said brightly, jerking back into motion, "Well, I best go attend to the rest of the ward. A pleasure to see you, Ms French"

She bit back the temptation to inform him that her name was still technically Gold, if only to be able to emphasis the _Mrs_ and have the room to herself again all the faster.

After he left she took a deep breath, and turned back to face Rumple. _The village coward. I've called him coward more than once, but I didn't need a village to do it._ She tried to picture him in peasant attire briefly, and struggled. The teacup held carefully in one hand, nestled in her lap, she raised her other arm and closed her eyes. _There are so many parts of your life that our conversations never even touched upon. You always wanted to talk about me, about us. Maybe, if this works, I can at least see a part of you I didn't know. My dreams often take me back to the Enchanted Forest—why not your memories too?_

Her stomach clenched. _But the dust didn't work for Henry. No doubt in a moment I'll still be sitting here, feeling foolish._

Belle exhaled, and lowered her hand.

The ground fell away.

* * *

 **A.N. Thanks so much for reading, and for the reviews/favs/follows etc – very much appreciated!** **Any guesses about the memories Belle will land in?**

 **In case it wasn't clear, I'm sticking to canon where its been provided as of Season 4, and filling in the blanks/moving forward with my own ideas. No doubt when the show returns Season 5 will see things take a very different path (can't wait!), but either way I wanted to explore the wonderfully complex identity of Rumplestiltskin. Thanks again!**


	4. The Beauty and the Cripple - 2 of 3

**The Beauty and the Cripple – 2 of 3**

With a soft gasp Belle landed on a hard surface, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her palms were splayed against the rough ground. She drew a shaky breath, fingers clawing at the tarmac.

 _It worked._

The brunette struggled to sit up, panting slightly. She blinked. Tarmac. _W-where am I?_ The air was cool—early morning, she'd guess, and ahead the road stretched into the distance, framed by lines of trees. She frowned, and pushed herself slowly to her feet. _Well, this doesn't_ look _like the Enchanted Forest . . . but then I guess he did travel to many realms._ The brunette dusted off her dress, only to find that the dirt from the asphalt didn't actually cling to it, apparently unaffected by her rather graceless arrival. _Ah yes, rule number—_

"Belle"

She froze. _Rumple._ Eyes wide, the young woman pivoted around, her heart lurching, even as her mind told her it was impossible. _He can't see me—I'm not really here—surely he can't—_

"Oh, Belle"

Her mouth dropped open.

Rumplestiltskin was kneeling on the ground with his back to her, his head bent. She took a step closer and noticed that his shoulders were shaking. Belle shook her own head slowly, heart hammering. He wasn't a peasant, nor was he covered in the scales and dragon-skin apparel of the Dark One. He was in an Armani suit, and he was crying.

 _No._ Something clicked in her mind, and suddenly the confused shaking of her head grew manic. _No, no, no._ She could feel the blood rushing in her ears. _This is not what I thought. I-I don't want to see this._ She was backing away, as her hands flew to her mouth and pressed hard against her lips. _I have to get out of here—to stop the memory._

"I, uh," Belle took a short breath and felt tears sting her eyes, "I don't want to see . . . what happened after . . . after I . . ." she whispered hoarsely. As if saying it aloud made a difference; as if there were somebody listening, ready to spirit her back to the real world the moment she asked.

 _ **She'll come back. She doesn't love you.**_

Two different voices—neither her own—had spoken suddenly together, echoing in her mind and making her jump.

Having given a little squeak of surprise, Belle clamped a trembling hand over her mouth. _I can hear his thoughts._ She shuddered as they came again, overlapping yet distinctive.

 _ **But it's True Love. Who could**_ **ever** _ **love you?**_

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. _Why . . . why are there two?_ One voice sounded familiar—sounded almost like Rumple, though . . . younger? Softer? But the other . . . the other was deep and persuasive: captivating and positively dancing with charisma.

 _ **She's my wife. She's a witch.**_ **No.**

The discordant sound of both voices talking at once left her reeling—as if the conflict in his mind was pushing out her own thoughts.

"I—I, I'm sorry," Rumple choked out, calling into the distance, "Please. Please . . ." he reached a hand toward what must have been the town line, as if expecting someone else to grasp it and pull him through. His back was aching and his ankle throbbed hellishly. The legs of his trousers were damp and cold from kneeling.

 _ **She won't come back. She knows what you've done. Doll.**_

 _He stayed all night_ , Belle realised. Her ribcage ached, as if bruised by the sharp thudding of her heart. _I banished him, and he stayed by the line. Waiting for me._ Her stomach clenched. _But I've lived out this story—I know how it goes. I—I don't return._

The weaker voice spoke alone. It sounded afraid.

 _ **W-what if she doesn't come back for me?**_

For a second, Belle thought that he'd read her mind. But that was impossible. _You can't change a memory. I'm just a phantom here, a spectre of myself._ Even when mute, listening, the darker voice seemed to crackle with energy, exulting in the silence.

 _ **What if sh—Of course she won't return. You got caught, fool.**_

The second voice became cutting, deeper, almost spitting with contempt. Trembling, Rumple lowered his hand, his shoulders bowed. Belle took a step closer to the line, to him. The voices seemed to be struggling with one another, merging slightly.

 _ **The hat, the stars, the heart. So close. So, so close. But you**_ **failed.** _ **Not only that, you allowed yourself to be controlled again.**_

The man in front of her shuddered, and she could hear his severe intake of breath. The lower voice gloated, triumphant.

 _ **The witch may be gone, but you've chained yourself to a new one.**_

"No," both Rumple and Belle spoke at once, the former pleading, the latter horrified.

 _ **Belle the witch. Your wife: the bitch.**_

Rumplestiltskin threw his hands over his ears, as if trying to drown out the voices, and started to rock back and forth.

 _ **No, no. No.**_

The brunette stood stock still. _He . . . he thinks that of me?_

 _ **She used the dagger against you. Made you her slave. Two mistresses. Belle and**_ **Zelena** _ **.**_

Fury and hurt rose in a tumbling mess within Belle's chest. _I—I saved everyone. I would_ never _have used the dagger if you hadn't . . . hadn't_ forced _my hand._

A mocking, cynical voice that she thought she'd long since buried reacted in the corner of her mind. _Well, that's not exactly true, now is it?_

The chaotic tangle of voices in Rumple's head was growing confused, as if scattering from something, like shadows fleeing the sun.

 _ **Don't speak her name! Don't say the witch's name!**_

The man recoiled, even against his own thoughts, but the darker voice came again, smirking, conceited. Clever.

 _ **. . . Which witch?**_

"Gah!" Rumple gasped and clutched at his chest, his fingers clawing against his shirt. Something within him felt heavier—colder, a hollow ache. Pain shot down his arms and left his fingertips trembling. All at once the voices retreated, vanishing so suddenly that the silence almost hurt, and Belle thought for a moment that she must have imagined their forceful invasion. She could feel her knees shaking violently as she stared at the hunched back in front of her. The librarian sank slowly to the ground, not trusting her legs to hold her.

When Rumple's mind whirred into thought once more, she recognised the voice as entirely his own; the voice of a man others called Mr. Gold—the voice of the man she married.

 _ **Mortal. Magic . . . gone.**_

Rumplestiltskin panted, leaning his hands heavily against the tarmac, as he fought to regain his breath. Perspiration beaded feverishly on his forehead. It was over. He closed his eyes, running over the process in his mind, resolutely memorising each stage and storing up the experience for later dissection. Belle cried out, her head flooded with half-thoughts and flashes of images.

As soon as his feet had dragged him across the town line, Rumple's capacity to perform magic had been wrenched from his body. Had he been a purely magical being, it would have equated to obliteration.

But he was human too. And sorcery had been woven into his veins for three hundred years. The residual powers of the Dark One drained at a slower pace. Eight hours this time. The more superficial layers of his power had been the first to go. The tendrils of magic he sent by instinct through the bones of his right leg, wrapping around his mangled ankle in an invisible crutch, had unwound almost instantly, leaving him to topple to the ground. Next, any sheets of artificial protection had been pulled from his body, uncloaking any mortifications or blemishes. Then came the more meaty stuff.

After several hours his unnatural physical strength had finished ebbing—removing his ability to last longer without food or sleep than any corporeal human—and then, then the internal battle had begun to rage. Voices—so many voices clamouring for attention. Some his own. Others, not. Feeding the madness at first. Then, fighting them off, one by one, until at last from the tangle of insanity a single, clear line of thought remained.

Only now, alone in his own mind, could he recognise what he'd become; could he feel the strange internal ache and the naked vulnerability that came with the sudden absence of immortality.

 _ **Only human, again.**_

Rumplestiltskin held up a quivering hand, turning and examining it in the early light. Belle trembled behind him, gasping in relief as the strange half-visions ended. _What—what was that? A-a memory? All that ha-happened to him after he, after I . . ._ She drew her knees up slowly to her chest, eyes haunted, retreating into memories of her own.

Rumple's fist clenched. He could still feel his pulse racing through his veins.

 _ **I had far less control this time. And no airport facilities to vent against when the last moments got . . . unpleasant.**_

He lowered his arm slowly, staring out at the empty, ghost-ridden road.

. . . _**And no boy to ask me a thousand questions, when my head was already full of voices.**_

His eyes widened as he recalled what he'd been stretching toward.

 _ **Storybrooke.**_

 _ **Belle.**_

Behind him, the librarian was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at her black leather pumps, just a metre away from Rumple.

Her own memories felt a little harder to grasp here—almost slippery somehow. The gauntlet, the fake dagger, the banishment. _The thing he loved most._ So many of the following nights she'd spent restless, drenched in sweat and shaking with guilt; unable to close her eyes for fear of picturing what fate had befallen the husband she'd exiled. Wishing desperately that she could find out. And now that she was here, witnessing it first-hand . . .

"I want to go home," Belle murmured to herself, hiccupping with the effort of trying not to cry. It was awful, but it was honest. She even tried clicking the heels of her shoes together, for all the good it did her. _What was I expecting? They don't even resemble ruby slippers._ Back when Zelena held Rumple captive, she'd read anything and everything she could find about this world's account of the Wicked Witch, useless as the research had proven to be.

 _Witch._ Belle felt her breath catch. _He compared me to the woman who kept him in a cage for a year._ If the sting of that insight could make her feel physically sick, how on earth was she to get through whatever followed next?

 _I just can't . . ._

But a still, small voice at the back of her mind refused to be quashed. _That wasn't him. Those awful words were spoken_ to _him, not from him. At least . . . it wasn't entirely him._ She shivered, and pulled the sleeves of her jacket further over her wrists. _I think I may have just met the Dark One, unembodied._

 _ **It has to be here.**_

Her eyes rose to rest on Rumple, who was fumbling through his pockets. _Cruella and Ursula said that he was a bum, a drunk; a miserable wreck after exile._

"That can't be true. Th-they were just distracting me _,"_ she whispered aloud, her voice small and shaky despite the conviction she tried to will into it _. He was with them the whole time, their ringleader, and not a hair out of place._ She sat up straighter. _He must find a loophole. He mu—_

"Where the hell is it?" Rumplestiltskin growled, upturning his jacket pockets.

Belle took a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet, wrapping her arms around her sides. _I don't have a choice. I can't leave. And if I have to be here, I owe it to—to Henry to witness things properly. For his book. For Emma. No matter what Rumple says or . . . or thinks of me._

Steeling herself, she stepped cautiously forward to look over his shoulder. She allowed herself a quick glance at Rumple's face, which was becoming increasingly lined by panic. _I owe it to him, too._

His wallet was on the ground, his pocket square balanced on his knee. With a grunt of relief he withdrew his mobile phone from inside his jacket, and flipped the cover open.

 _ **Belle. I'll call her—she'll, she'll have realised how rash . . .**_

Belle closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. Her betrayal of him _had_ been rash—a heartbroken act of passion. His betrayal of her had been planned to near perfection. _Calculated. Perhaps from the moment I returned his dagger—the moment he proposed_. . .

" _I spent every day of our marriage deceiving you". He-he'd admitted it himself._

The phone screen was blank, and though Rumple kept holding the power button that didn't change. He flung the uncharged device down.

 _ **Damn.**_

Face contorting in frustration, he shoved his possessions back into his suit, dropping his phone back inside the jacket's inner pocket. Its plastic body clinked gently against something.

Rumple paused. He fished out the object slowly, his expression hesitant. It took a moment for Belle to recognise the little cluster of metal.

 _ **Bae's keys.**_

A pang of grief rocked through him. His fist closed, holding the keys so hard that his knuckles went white and their grooves bit into his palms. Regina had returned them to him, after—when he was free. A long moment passed before he looked up, staring into the vacant, deserted road which cloaked the town, and acknowledging the daylight. His grip slackened slightly.

 _ **My situation . . . this is all temporary. Belle is no doubt trying to bring down the barrier this very moment. But . . . but that may take some time.**_

Her blue eyes pained, the librarian listened as Rumple cleared his throat, forcing an airy self-assurance into his own internal monologue. She distracted herself from the fresh wave of guilt with questions—trying hard to be distanced, to be a good researcher. To be neutral. _Who's he trying to convince? The Dark One? Himself? Are they—are they one and the same now?_

 _ **Until then, I—I had best be in a suitable place to receive her call.**_

He tried to rise, but as soon as he put pressure on his right foot an acute jolt of pain shot up his leg. Ankle buckling, he fell awkwardly to the ground, dashing the side of his face against the road.

Belle gave a slight gasp and automatically reached out. Her hands passed straight through his shoulders. Shivering at the strange sensation, she balked and retreated a few steps. _Neutral_. _Neutral_.

Cheek pressed to the cold tarmac, Rumplestiltskin grimaced.

 _ **At least no-one can see me . . . like this.**_

Conscience prickling, Belle turned to survey the forest, scratching at her ring finger.

Rumple struggled back to his knees, quickly waving a hand across his jawline to remove the graze. It took him a moment to realise that nothing had happened, and nor would it.

 _ **I'm a cripple here. In more ways than one.**_

As he endeavoured to manoeuvre himself to his feet, Belle closed her eyes and recalled the moment in which she'd entered their hou—his house, after she finally made it back from the town line. She'd intended to rush through, grabbing up her essential possessions, before retreating to the caretaker's apartment above the library. But within moments she'd frozen stock still, staring at the umbrella stand just inside the mansion's front door. Staring at his cane.

 _ **Fire and bloody brimstone.**_

The newly human Dark One had managed to balance himself precariously on his good leg, only to find that he hadn't planned for beyond that. Gritting his teeth, he fixed a hard stare on the woods ahead, and began to hop. Belle's eyes followed him, sad and full of culpability.

 _ **Gods, I must look ridiculous. Regina would get a kick out of this.**_

Clenching his fists, he sprang with slightly too much force, and had to fling his arms out suddenly to avoid overbalancing.

 _ **The most dreaded sorcerer in the entirety of the Enchanted Forest playing hopscotch on his own, in a suit worth more than the saviour's car.**_

Instinctively Belle fell into step by his left side—the side on which they used to hold hands or link arms when his right hand was occupied with the cane.

Rumple slipped on the muddy descent from the roadside into the trees and again she automatically flung a hand out to his elbow, but again her arm sailed straight through him. Instead of steadying her former husband, she fell down next to him with a gasp, shivering once more at the peculiar feeling.

 _ **I should have known better. Instead of going forward, I have to go back.**_

A moment passed. His eyes were firmly closed, but he was still sitting upright, still thinking, so he couldn't have been knocked out. _Could he?_ Belle leant closer, and jumped when the sharp amber-brown eyes snapped open, gleaming with a strange mixture of emotions.

Pushing himself upright using the gentle slope, Rumple began to move with surprising rapidity between the pine trees, leaning on their trunks as he passed.

 _ **Just like before.**_

The brunette stumbled after him, the treetops filtering out the morning sun and casting his back in long shadows. As Rumplestiltskin moved onward, scanning the forest floor, Belle began twisting her phantom wedding ring.

A thought struck her, and she moved a hand over her watch instead, cupping the glass face and straining to read it in the dim light. She raised it to her ear, but there was no tick—the hands were stationary, stuck at 11:09 am. _It must have stopped when I entered his memories. Does that mean I'm in some kind of preserved state in here?_ A small part of her was curious enough to consider walking away—just briefly—to experience that strange underwater feeling Henry had mentioned. _But I don't know what happens if you wander too far._

The sound of trickling of water brought her out of her reverie. _Oh. Rumple found a stream?_ She looked up and found with a blush that whilst the sound was quite natural, it was not from a forest brook. She turned her back, allowing her former husband to relieve himself in privacy.

Foliage crunching under his leather Ferragamos, Rumple examined and discarded three branches before he was satisfied with the height and sturdiness provided. His hand wrapped around the coarse limb as he stripped it of debris. It felt almost supple in his palm, familiar. Belle's gaze softened slightly. _Perhaps the spinner within him isn't buried so deep._ The return to the road was faster and, indeed, slightly more dignified that their abandonment of it, but when they reached the break in the trees, an irate fear clenched at Rumple's heart.

 _ **Idiot. Damn fool.**_

He hissed profanities to himself as he stumbled back onto the asphalt, turning to look desperately around him. Belle followed his gaze, confused.

 _ **One hundred yards, perhaps, if that.**_

He spurned the idea of going forth to check.

 _ **I wander one step too far, and I could end up on the wrong side of this cursed town.**_

Instead Rumple limped back over to the treeline, his hands searching his suit.

 _ **I need a marker, some kind of—ah.**_

Biting back the thought of its worth, the man tugged at his silk tie, wrenching it from his neck with a growl. With one hand he looped it around a branch, trying to balance without aggravating his ankle.

Belle watched as something in his eyes changed from anger to . . . _grief? Pain?_ The tie looked lost, hanging there alone in the wind. She frowned, trying to remember something Henry had been saying, just as they reached the hospital—her thoughts had been preoccupied, flooded by painful, more recent, recollections: the failure of True Love's kiss.

 _ **Temporary. This is only . . . temporary.**_

Rumplestiltskin gave the tie a final look, and turned abruptly, beginning to walk stiffly down the empty road, away from Storybrooke. Belle followed him, enrapt in memories of her own. Mere hours before, her past self had been here too, and had begun walking in the opposite direction. With tears streaking her face in the cold night air, she'd been murmuring an alternative refrain—different words intended to comfort.

 _Permanent. This is permanent._

* * *

Belle walked with Rumplestiltskin.

She walked with him during the first few steps, when his gait was still adjusting to the makeshift staff, his movements stiff and brow furrowed.

She walked with him as he formulated a plan, relentlessly pushing away thoughts of the previous night; doggedly denying himself the chance to consider that perhaps his wife didn't _want_ him to find a way back to her. Logan International Airport. He'd find whatever passed for civilisation in this hellhole, this realm America, and order a cab, a comfortable one, to drive him to the airport. A place he actually knew. Then he'd take one of those metal death-traps, first class, to Manhattan. If he was going to risk his life again with this world's flying technology, he was going to do it with foot-room and a ready supply of complimentary whiskey to steady his nerves. Then he'd arrive at Bae's apartment, find a way to charge his phone, and call Belle. Together, they'd find a way for him to return.

She walked with him when the walking itself got harder—when the midday sun burned down and his suit dampened with the sweat of physical exertion, the mud on the outer jacket drying in patches. When his ankle throbbed, and each step became a small torment. When she had stared in strange fascination at her own legs—at the heels which by now, after hours of walking, should have been making her own feet ache, or even blister: _Is it because my body is stationary in Storybrooke?_ When Rumple had to fight to keep himself from thinking of monsters and men: of what Belle had said and of the finality in her eyes. When the word 'temporary' became almost a chant, muttered in time with his slow limping march. It would be hard, but with her brilliance at research and his ability to spot a loophole, they'd find a way for him to cross the barrier. There was always a way; however hidden, it was just a matter of identification.

She was walking with him when, with a single thought, his plan fell apart.

 _ **Identification.**_

Logan International Airport. Rumplestiltskin had been there before, certainly. On a trip which he had planned with painstaking care. Researched for days. He'd poured over maps, booked flights, withdrew huge sums of cash, packed and re-packed. And, most importantly, he had 'borrowed' Miss Swan's passport, in order to magically craft a perfect copy for himself. If he'd learnt anything from his investigations into travelling through this realm, it was that documentation was pivotal. Without identification, at best he'd be delayed and refused access, at worst detained as an 'alien'. After centuries of waiting, he hadn't been about to allow one kingdom's idiosyncrasies to thwart his reunion with Bae—particularly not those of a Land Without Magic.

That trip he had prepared for devotedly. This one he'd never dreamed of.

They stopped walking.

Actually, that wasn't true. He had planned for this one.

Rumplestiltskin released a slow breath he hadn't been aware that he'd been holding. His eyes were fixed on a small patch of road just beyond his makeshift staff. Belle stood close by, watching his expression carefully. _Oh._ Realisation dawned on her just before his thoughts reverberated through her mind. _Our, our—_

 _ **Our honeymoon.**_

The brunette closed her eyes, recalling the painful jolt she'd experienced when she returned to the back of the shop and saw her suitcase, still not closed properly—waiting on the counter. _I was going to see the world, at last. With my new husband . . ._

Rumple cleared his throat, which seemed to be burning slightly. By now they'd have been rolling along in his Cadillac, perhaps stopping somewhere for an iced tea, their pace leisurely. They had the rest of their lives ahead of them, after all.

 _ **And I'd have been free.**_

Finally, utterly unrestricted by the one thing that both intoxicated and terrified him in equal measure. The dagger.

Rumplestiltskin bowed his head slightly, resting it against his hands, which still clasped the homely staff. He had always intended to be making his way to New York today. But he hadn't intended to be alone.

Something in Belle snapped. She couldn't bear to stay voiceless, merely observing; not when her heart ached like this, in both longing and anger. She turned to face him, not caring that he couldn't hear her.

Her voice was hoarse from lack of use, her blue eyes swimming with fresh pain, but she had to speak, to voice realities he still seemed oblivious to, " _You_ would have been free. But you'd have traded away _my_ free will to do so—leading me across the town line away from my friends, my father: my home without ever telling me the consequences," her breath caught painfully in her throat, "L-lying to me throughout whatever life we built," she shook her head, trying hard not to let her lips tremble, "You'd never change"

 _ **The car.**_

Closing his eyes, Rumple pictured the trunk of the Cadillac, in which his and Belle's magically fashioned passports lay, along with a vast quantity of dollars and, just to be sure, a small bundle of sticks, formerly straw, now gold: gleaming and heavy. He hadn't trusted that the credit cards used by the town's occupants would function beyond its boundaries—the little embossed logo for 'Storybrooke Bank' in their corners didn't exactly fill him with confidence.

Jaw clenched tight, it took him a few moments to fully digest this revelation, and its consequences.

 _ **No.**_

His stomach plummeted in dread and he almost dropped the wooden branch in his haste to extract his wallet—to check—

 _ **Forty dollars.**_

Rumplestiltskin shivered, suddenly aware of an entirely new level of vulnerability. When you own the majority of a town, and can extract money from people as easily as any machine, carrying cash becomes an afterthought. When you have magic, everything so easily becomes an afterthought, no matter how often you remind yourself of the cost.

Belle stared at the wallet with her mouth open, a fresh shudder of trepidation rippling coldly through her, "I-I didn't know—I didn't think—"

But she didn't get the chance to finish her sentence, for the world disappeared.

* * *

Before Belle had the time to react, to even throw her arms up in some wild attempt at defence, the strange tumbling was over—the blackness had retreated so quickly that she'd barely registered its arrival. She blinked. It was darker, later. _Is this the same day?_

She became aware of Rumple's presence when he walked through her, limping closer to peer at a sign. Shuddering, she rubbed the skin over her heart, and scanned the back of his coat, attempting to discern if a significant amount of time had passed. The fabric didn't seem any different from when they had been walking—he hadn't cleaned it, but it wasn't worse for wear either. Her eyes roamed to their surroundings.

They were near a sparsely populated car park, seemingly at the edge of some small town, standing on a mound of grass. _Forty dollars,_ the thought came to her. _How could I leave him with just forty dollars? Send him across the town line w-without checking . . ._ She caught herself, could almost feel Lacey's sardonic drawl rising up to mock her. _What, would I have packed a bag and thrown it over with him?_

 _ **Tomorrow. Of course it would be tomorrow.**_

Her line of thought trailed off as she noticed the basic wooden cane in his hand. His fingers were scratching absently across the handle, evidently trying to peel away the remainder of a price sticker. _Less than forty dollars, now, I guess._ Belle moved forward across the grass, briefly grateful that her spectral form prevented her high heels from sinking in the mud.

 _ **Well, one night in this shambles should be just about bearable.**_

Frowning slightly, Belle followed his gaze to read the large yellow letters against the black sign, apparently designed to tempt drivers in for a rest. ' _Best Breakfast in Town'_. It took her a moment to notice that Rumple was reading something else—a small flyer which someone had plastered to the edge of the sign.

' _Moving Maine Forward - Polar Star Coaches. Single ticket, Maine to NYC: $70 pp'._

She leant forward to read the small print.

' _Depart 7am Monday, Wednesday & Friday'._

Rumplestiltskin turned abruptly and despite his limp and his evident distaste for the cheap cane, his movements were rapid. The librarian had to hurry to keep up with him, practically trotting across the car park.

Belle barely had time to take in the name of the diner— _Clarette's Family Restaurant_ —before Rumple was pushing through the glass double doors, his face drawn, and she was, well, ghosting through to follow him.

The place seemed clean; more wood and less plastic than at Granny's, with wide booths, open blinds and yellow lights hanging from the ceiling. A few plants were dotted around and, as they entered, her eyes were drawn to a little rotatable black wire rack, which housed the latest bestsellers. Restraining herself from peering at the synopsis of the closest novel, the librarian turned to find that Rumple had already collected a dark green leather menu. He'd earned a welcoming nod from the auburn-haired waitress, whose light blue-green eyes were roaming over his slightly tousled Armani suit. He returned the nod silently.

 _ **It would seem that—minus the bickering of a certain elderly widow and her incessantly disgruntled granddaughter—a diner actually can be hospitable.**_

Belle turned around, her eyes wide. _I've never seen this world beyond the town line before,_ she thought, gazing around her, _never been past the confines of our little town._

Simply seeing a café other than Granny's seemed a little overwhelming all of a sudden. _Well, I guess I made it out here to . . . to . . ._ She faltered _. Where are we, exactly? Well, to the great wide somewhere, even if I am doing it as an apparition within Rumple's memories._

He had already lowered himself into an empty booth and as she slid in opposite him, she found herself imagining briefly that they were back in Storybrooke; out for one of their rare dates under the public eye—which meant that at any moment now the heroes would come bursting in, demanding help.

 _The heroes._

She lowered her gaze to her hands, picking thoughtfully at her nails. _I never know whether to count myself among them. I guess marrying a self-defined villain messes with your perception somewhat._ Her blue eyes lifted to watch Rumple, who was staring with a closed, tight-lipped expression at the menu. _He called me a hero once, when I didn't know who I was. A hero who helped her people._ She shivered as his voice tickled through her memories, morphing from loving to livid . . . . _More than once, actually._

" _Is this you being the hero, and killing the beast?"_

Rumple cleared his throat, trying to ignore the strange pangs he felt when he read the options for iced tea, for hamburgers—hell, even for lasagne.

"I think not," he muttered scathingly to himself, "The Dark One does not get homesick. Not for an octogenarian's over-praised pasta—not for anything"

 _ **And I'll be home soon enough, anyway.**_

"What can I get you, sir?"

The waitress had popped up at their table, dangly silver earrings jingling against her blue shirt. With his jaw clenched tight, Rumplestiltskin handed her back the menu.

"One tea, please"

 _ **And the refills had best be free, dearie.**_

"And to eat?" she prompted, smiling as she poised her pen above her notepad, tucking the menu into her black apron.

"One tea," Rumple repeated, giving her a withering look. His stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, but although his cheeks reddened slightly he maintained the glare. The waitress's smile faltered and she moved away.

Belle closed her eyes, forcing herself to ask questions, rather than stay dwelling uselessly in the guilt. So many people in Storybrooke still felt out of place, still yearned to find a way back to the Enchanted Forest. She frowned. _When did Rumple start considering this world home?_

 _ **Oh, Belle.**_

The sorcerer was fiddling with his amethyst ring; a band which had been with him for countless years and had more recently moved to his left hand to become a symbol of his marriage. As she watched him twist it around the base of his ring-finger, the answer occurred to her. _"My walls were up. But you brought them down. You brought me home"_

"Oh," Belle said softly, to herself, "Our, uh, our vows"

In her childhood, her mother had often told her that home will be where the heart is. _No wonder I felt so empty during the weeks he was gone—there was never a word so true._ She tilted her head, looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes. There had been a time when she'd been able to catch little glimpses of him—of how he felt and what he thought—behind the various masks he wore. After his resurrection and . . . and Zelena, the masks were different. When one slipped, it only revealed another.

 _ **I'm sorry, Bae. I broke another promise to you. I pledged to be that man—the man you died for . . .**_

 _And Neal's grave. That makes Storybrooke home for him, too._ Her heart fluttered uncomfortably. _I took him away from where his son is buried._

 _ **. . . and I failed.**_

A moment passed.

 _ **Because I always fail.**_

Rumple closed his eyes, but not before Belle saw something in them darken.

 _ **Anna. August. Zelena.**_

He clenched his fists shut suddenly; clamping them closed with such unrelenting force that they shook, and one of his nails drew blood.

 _ **Anna. August. Zelena.**_ **Belle** _ **.**_

The brunette flinched slightly, staring at him uneasily. _M-me?_

 _ **They tried to control me, to use my dagger against me—make me their puppet.**_

Rumplestiltskin growled softly, retreating into one of the darker corners of his mind, finding safety in the familiar fury.

 _ **Never again. I will free myself. Rumplestiltskin is slave to no-one. Milah, Cora, Regina, Zelena, Belle. No woman will fool me again. Nor any man pretend to be my son.**_

Belle's mouth dropped open. _I—I—_

 _ **I showed weakness. Forgot for a moment. Women do not like**_ _ **to be married to cowards. Milah despised me. Shunned me for my fear. I . . . I told Belle I was afraid and she forced me away from her—she saw my feebleness and was repelled. Banished me. Exiled me. Hero.**_

Rumple's face had contorted, twisting into a furious, vicious veneer. The last word was an accusation.

 _ **Darkness and isolation and love. Darkness and weakness and death. Only the darkness is a constant.**_

Eyes still clenched shut, he struck the table with a fist.

 _ **My fault. It's not my fault. The game is rigged. The villains never win. Villains**_ **don't** _ **get happy endings.**_

"Uh, your tea, sir?"

Rumple's eyes snapped open. The waitress was giving him a rather strange look, her movements edgy as she placed the mug in front of him. Belle found that she was shaking, and realised that her face was damp, although when the tears had begun to fall she'd no idea.

Glancing at the weak tea with a sarcastic smile, the sorcerer prepared to give the server a derisive dismissal, but the words caught in his throat. Belle followed his gaze as her vision cleared. The mug had a minor crack running up the side, ending in a chip that left a small, sharp edge to part of the rim.

 _ **I . . .**_

The waitress noticed his fixed, wordless stare and quickly cast out a hand to retrieve the damaged vessel, throwing him an anxious, half-apologetic glance.

"Sorry about that—I'll getcha another"

"No, no," Rumple found his voice at last, speaking hoarsely, "I-I, this one is fine," and he pulled the imperfect mug possessively back toward himself. Perhaps too quickly.

She eyed him for a second before giving a dismissive shrug, "It's just a mug"

Rumplestiltskin made a noise like someone had kicked him.

Before she could give herself a moment to reconsider, Belle slid out of the booth and walked to the entrance of the diner. At the doors she hesitated. _I've seen enough. Enough memories to add to Henry's book. This—this hurts too much._

She looked out through the glass to the world beyond. _Henry said that your senses fade if you stray too far from the owner of the memory. Surely . . . surely that would mean that I'd wake up?_ Her hand was on the door, or at least the majority of her hand—her fingertips had already passed through. _I could just tell the others that I—that I wanted to experiment._ The next thought to enter her mind was whispered, and it wasn't her own.

 _ **. . . Sometimes the best teacup is chipped . . .**_

Belle was surprised to notice, as she stared at the door, that she didn't have a reflection. She shouldn't have been, really—it made sense, given that she didn't actually exist here. But something at the back of her mind kept her immobile, while she tried to puzzle out the significance of the observation. Her hands felt oddly cold.

" _Not that you've ever really been hero material. Everyone sees you for what you really are, Belle: a pathetic coward"_

She inhaled sharply, recalling the words that she'd once told herself. Words spoken through a mirror built to magnify the worst aspects of a person. And when she'd protested against her reflection's accusations—that the Dark One had only married her because she was weak enough to be manipulated—she'd held up the dagger for proof. The fake dagger.

" _You truly believe that's real? Deep down, you know what kind of beast you're dealing with"_

And she had. Just as, deep down, she'd always known the truth about Zelena's sudden demise. Belle tried hard to recall the conversation in the shop that night; had she given Rumple his dagger—his freedom—back on a condition? _My love, or vengeance for your son's death?_ She shuddered and lowered her hand, still staring at the place where her reflection should have been. _The mirror reflects the worst in us. Does that mean that my worst fears are being weak? Being a coward and not having the capacity for heroism?_

She let out a short burst of laughter, then raised a hand to her mouth, surprised. _Where did that come from? Surely I should be crying, rather than laughing?_

But something within her felt strangely lighter, and she smiled at the glass door and the outside world, shaking her head gently, "I guess I, uh, I have more in common with my husband than I thought"

 _My husband._

Belle turned around, her eyes seeking out Rumple. His back was to her, hunching over his tea, wordless. She bit her lip.

 _Perhaps a real hero doesn't slay the beast. Perhaps a real hero stays with the beast. Even when they're just that—a beast; no more, no less, no hope of some miraculous transformation, no condition that they have to change. Not because it's the brave thing to do, or even necessarily the right thing to do, but because they want to. Because their heart tells them to._

 _Love. Unconditional._

She stepped away from the door. _And besides, maybe it's time for me to stop trying to be a hero, and to just . . . just be myself._

Unbeknown to Rumplestiltskin, his wife came to sit opposite him as he sipped tea and stared through the red and yellow restaurant sign at the rain flecking the windows. He couldn't feel it, but their hands touched.

* * *

They were walking together again, but this time it was darker, it was raining, and they weren't the only people around for miles. Rumple had interrogated the, now no-doubt traumatised, waitress over the location of a rather familiar outlet, gritting his teeth at the irony of it all. He'd been right before.

 _ **Fate does have a sense of humour. And a rather cruel one at that.**_

Rumplestiltskin and Belle slowed down as the shop's sign came into view. _All That Glitters: 24 Hr Pawn Shop._ The streetlight was dimmer here, and a few figures were gathered at the corner of the curb, smoking.

Steeling himself, Rumple limped through the shallow puddles and into the building. He blanched slightly under the bright fluorescent lighting, which seemed to flicker as he walked, and tried not to allow any hint of his distaste for the vendor's arrangements to reflect in his demeanour. He was here, after all, to make a deal. Something he had rather a talent for.

The back of the shop was stacked with numerous televisions in various states of disrepair, and instead of a desk the proprietor had arranged a row of glass cabinets featuring a huge array of watches. As he approached, a short, rotund man of about thirty, whose face was graced with a thin moustache, emerged from the backroom.

Belle watched as Rumple proceeded to do what he did best—laying out the gold armbands which had been keeping his shirt-sleeves perfectly straight; weaving, haggling and making great use of his silver tongue to ensure that the price was right. He even threw in a few comments about his own business, constructing and immediately exploiting a new sense of professional camaraderie.

At long last when he had the poor man sweating, stammering and desperate to be rid of this fast-talking stranger, with the soft Scottish lilt and predacious eyes, he raised a finger, "Deal, or no deal?"

It was a deal. It wasn't much, but together with the forty dollars it was enough to get him a coach ticket—perhaps even a cheap room for the night and some food. And those bands had felt a little heavier this side of the town line, anyway: an unnecessary burden.

They exited the shop and began to walk through the dark streets, Belle on his left. Rumple carried himself a little taller—it had been a tedious day, there's no denying, but Rumplestiltskin always came out on top. By this time tomorrow he'd be settling into his son's apartment, recuperating from his journey, and beginning work on a plan to get himself home.

 _ **Bae.**_

He could even spend a day or two looking at the life Baelfire had built for himself, trying to get to know the years he'd missed.

 _ **Bae was my happy ending. But a sadistic witch and the Fates took him from me.**_

Rumple's eyes fell to the floor, haunted.

 _ **And unless you're trapped in a curse, there's no coming back from death. Dead is . . . dead. His—his soul is free. And his heroism will be remembered.**_

He closed his eyes briefly. With each step his cane tapped against the damp gravel less assuredly and his gait slowed.

 _ **Belle. Belle is my happy ending now. I've surrounded myself with darkness, and she is the last flicker of light.**_

His jaw clenched as he recalled those final moments before—before she'd disappeared from view and he'd crumpled to the ground.

 _ **But, once again, I've lost her.**_

Something harder came into his eyes.

 _ **Regina may have been on to something. If I can't take a happy ending for myself, I need to ask for one. And I don't have to ask nicely.**_

Belle shivered when she saw the cold smile spreading across Rumplestiltskin's face. _The Author . . ._

 _ **It would seem that a certain devil woman with a spotted past was right: the game will always be rigged. Simple enough. Then I'll just have to change the rule—**_

"Oof," with a heavy grunt, something hit Rumple full-force, propelling him sideways into one of the smaller alleys. He fell hard, cracking his tailbone and an elbow against the ground, his cane skittering away over the wet gravel.

"Rumple!" Belle gasped, and fell down beside him, her heart in her throat.

Winded, he fought to look up.

 _ **M-magic?**_

Belle followed his gaze. _No, not magic._

Two figures were approaching, the hoods of their jackets masking their faces in shadow. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to their clothes. One was tall and slight, the other a little shorter, but lean.

Rumple stared up at them with startled eyes, his fingers scrabbling against the ground as he tried to sit up.

"What—"

He didn't get the chance to finish his question, as the taller of the lads aimed a kick at his stomach. It connected and Rumple doubled over with a grunt. Belle cried out, reaching forward frantically to hold him in her arms, but her hands passed uselessly through. _No._

Heart pounding in fear—and hating himself for it—the exiled sorcerer forced himself to think, to analyse what they were doing, what they—

 _Thunk._

The second kick was aimed lower, and he curled up on his side with a muffled groan.

 _ **Please.**_

Instinct took over. He'd been robbed before—hell, he'd been a target for the vast majority of his peasant life, particularly after he'd returned from the war as a deserter, a confirmed coward. A cripple.

As the lads laughed and took turns to lash out with their boots, Rumplestiltskin coiled himself into a ball, letting his back take the majority of the blows, protecting his vital organs. Most of all he tried not to cry out—it only ever added fuel to the fire, made them relish the sport and take longer to lose interest.

 _ **Just like before.**_

Desperate, Belle attempted to throw herself over Rumple, for all the good it did. Instead of helping him, all she gained was the strange perspective of watching their boots pass through her own body to crack against his side. Her eyes narrowed suddenly; each time Rumple recoiled from the assault, his hands were doing something—moving quickly. Her chest was still constricted in panic, in guilt and in dread, but she was watching now, trying to understand—

"Oh," the brunette breathed.

Using the natural momentum from their kicks, Rumple was shielding his actions from their sight each time he hunched over. He'd slipped off his wedding ring, held it clenched in his palm as his fists seemingly balled in pain. As Belle watched, in admiration and anxiety, her husband used his other hand to extract from an inner pocket the money he'd received from the pawnshop, and . . . and something else. Belle squinted. But the suffering in his face was very real, and it was becoming harder for him to concentrate.

 _ **I need . . .**_

With a snort of effort, the leaner of the two lads threw all his force behind a final kick.

"Gah!" Rumple's back arched in agony.

He curled up, moaning, drawing his feet towards him in the fetal position. Belle flashed a furious glare at his attackers, and when she looked back the notes in his hand had disappeared.

Before she had time to wonder or guess, the two young men were turning Rumple's pockets inside out, shaking his coat, and pushing at him as they searched. They drew out his phone, and his heart clenched in fear. But they simply threw it back, seemingly judging it unworthy. He winced as it cracked against the pavement, willing it not to be damaged. Apparently they expected more of a man dressed in a tailored Armani suit.

"What—what do you want?" he tried to wheeze, but they ignored him. He almost took pleasure in their disappointment but, a moment later, the tallest of the pair was withdrawing his wallet.

"Ah, knew you'd 'ave somethin', ya ritzy geezer!"

Flicking through the contents—mostly business cards, a few receipts, an underwhelming forty dollars and the credit card for a bank they'd never heard of—the scowls under their hoods darkened. Until suddenly, they spotted something else. The taller lad drew it out to examine. Well, they might not be getting much profit, but at least they could have some fun. Rumple's eyes widened.

 _ **No, please don't . . .**_

"An' who's this?" one asked with a leer.

Belle frowned, confused.

"Pretty," the other commented, his smirk a little too hungry.

With a worried glance at Rumple, Belle rose to see what they were staring so morbidly at. _I need to record it all,_ she thought miserably, _for the book. I wish I wasn't so helpless here. I wish I could—_

She froze. They were staring at her. At a small, creased little photo of her. She remembered Ruby taking it—the two of them had been laughing together about something in the library, no doubt trying to make the most of a brief interval between the calamities which inevitably plagued the town. _But how did Rumple? Why would he—_

"Proper little tart," the taller man whistled appreciatively, "Coulda walked straigh' out the penthouse"

 _ **I will rip out your tongues.**_

"That's my wife," Rumplestiltskin growled, his fists shaking, even as he lay splayed at their feet.

Belle stared at the picture. It was such a _normal_ thing to do—that's what shocked her the most. Such a husbandly, human thing to have in his wallet. She paused, listening as something rumbled in the distance. The engine of a car revved as it approached and passed the alley. The leaner lad glanced behind him, tugging his hood further over his eyes.

 _ **I will rip out your tongues and I will make you eat them.**_

The dark voice in her mind was snarling in toothless fury, practically spitting in rage, and she looked down at her husband. His eyes were set on the men and, despite his evident fear, there was something cold and dangerous in them too. She was no longer sure who she was more afraid for.

But the two lads only laughed, pocketing the wallet and flicking the photo at him.

"Yeah, right. Dream on, old man"

As soon as the sound of their footsteps had disappeared, Rumple pushed himself backward to lean stiffly against the alley wall. Already he could feel the spreading of bruises across his back, and something ached dully in his side. He rubbed a hand over his heart, leaning his head back in discomfort.

Belle knelt, her eyes searching his face. She reached out a gentle hand to cup his cheek, whispering words of comfort that she knew he couldn't hear.

"When I leave your memories, we're going to bring you back, Rumple. We won't give up," her breath caught, "And when—when you _do_ wake up, we're going to get through this together," she gave him a watery smile, "Do you . . . do you remember what you told Henry once, at the shop? When I was in the back room?"

She leant closer, brushing his forehead with a phantom kiss, "'Memories are more often bad than good. We—we make mistakes, and throughout our lives, there's no avoiding them," her voice shook slightly.

Tilting forward, she pretended that she could feel her forehead lean against his, warm and real, "And they're woven into a heavy cloak of regret that we uh, that we wear until we die . . . But it's bearing it that makes you learn, makes you _strong_ '

With a hiss of pain Rumple leant forward, his fingers plucking at the sock on his left foot, retrieving the small roll of notes and a little cluster of keys.

* * *

 **A.N. The next part of this section is predominantly based on actual scenes from the show, but I just wanted to give these two a little bit of time to journey together before Rumple reaches Baelfire's apartment. Especially given what we know comes next. Should hopefully be an interesting one to see our favourite librarian react to!**

 **What did you think of Belle here? I didn't want her to just rush back into Rumple's arms, and I'm hoping that through his memories she's learning as much about herself as she is about him. Please do review if you have the time, and thanks so much for reading!**


	5. The Beauty and the Cripple - 3 of 3

**The Beauty and the Cripple – [Part 3 of 3]**

 _ **It is not a cage.**_

Belle sniffed, uncovering her eyes and wiping away the tears from her cheeks. She'd barely had time to see Rumple withdraw Neal's keys and lean back against the wall before the strange tumbling had come once again. In the half-breath before the world fell away and the darkness had ebbed in she'd raised her hands together carefully, palms facing upward.

 _I don't want to drop it_ , she'd thought, _when I awake_. _That poor cup is chipped enough_. But instead of a hospital, the brunette had found herself in a white-washed room with a black and white chequered floor.

Blinking rapidly, the librarian had covered her eyes while she adjusted to the light. Dingy as this building seemed, it was markedly brighter than a darkened alley in the night, and the white walls certainly didn't help. But within moments Rumple's voice—or rather, his thoughts—brought her back to the present. Which, she quickly observed, was still the past.

"Rumple?"she turned away from the double doors she was facing, to find him staring up at a large metal gate of some kind.

 _ **Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.**_

 _Lovelace._ Belle swallowed. _I read him that._ At the time Rumple had scoffed at the poem, ridiculing its portrayal of a free soul—a quiet mind. She glanced around at the rundown building; paint peeling from the walls, disordered piles of newspapers and pamphlets scattered around in untidy heaps. _Where are we? And what does lyrical verse have to do wi—_

 _ **I enter and leave freely. You won't keep me from my son's home, witch.**_

The brunette blinked. _This is Neal's apartment? We're in Manhattan?_ She came to stand beside him, scanning his haggard expression. _But why would . . . ?_ Belle looked again at the bars of the security gate, and her brows knitted together in understanding. _Zelena._ She sighed gently, her heart heavy.

The nightmares she knew about, to some extent. After they married she had often awoken in the night to discover Rumple's side of the bed cold and vacant, or rolled over to find him staring at the ceiling with haunted eyes. And when he did sleep it was a restless, agitated slumber. Once or twice he'd even jolted her awake with a stifled yelp; flinching away and refusing to tell her what he'd seen that had made him sweat and shake so. He would only retreat further into himself, and she'd have to wait for the daylight before she could reach out to him. Belle wrapped her mauve jacket more tightly around herself. _I never knew that Zelena plagued you so frequently in the waking hours too, Rumple._

"It is not a cage," Rumplestiltskin snarled firmly, reaching out a hand towards the bars. His fingers hesitated briefly, and then gripped the cool metal. Hard.

 _ **The last time I was behind bars, witch, it was with one purpose. To kill you. You can't**_ **control** _ **me now.**_

His wife shuddered next to him. _So my suspicions were . . . correct._ Belle closed her eyes briefly, her stomach sinking. _He did do it. Rumple murdered Zelena._

The sorcerer's face had twisted into a semblance of a smile. Unwitting heroes; they had locked the flame-haired enchantress in the cell at the Sheriff's station, utterly ignorant of the opportunity for poetic justice they were creating. They couldn't have chosen a better place for the Dark One to execute her. Powerless and trapped, the roles of captive and captor had been reversed, and at long last the dagger had been back where it belonged. In the hands of its owner.

Rumple released the cold steel, clenching his fingers firmly, so as not to let them tremble. He had killed her in a cage, but all the poetic justice in the world couldn't make him enjoy the sight of metal confines.

Belle swallowed. _And he . . . doctored the footage? Used me and my supposed possession of the dagger as . . . as an excuse? The trust between us was just a show for others?_

The exiled Dark One took a long, steady breath.

 _ **Memories are pain. Pain is strength. And vengeance . . . essential.**_

The spectral young woman gave her husband a piercing look, trying desperately to read him, to understand. _I may not really be in this place, but he is. And why wear a mask when no-one is around to see it? Perhaps . . . perhaps here I'll be able to finally look beneath the façade again._

But Rumplestiltskin had already turned away, searching through his pockets. Undeterred, Belle examined their surroundings, glancing at the wooden bench below him, and at the sign attached to the steel barrier. _'PLEASE DO NOT CHAIN YOUR BIKE TO THE SECURITY GATE – THANK YOU'_. Her gaze dropped onto the bicycle attached to the opposite side. _Huh._ She looked up to find that Rumple had limped to the entrance, and was holding up Neal's fob to the buzzer. It clicked open.

Bracing herself slightly, despite knowing full well that her ghostly form wouldn't feel anything, Belle passed through the barrier, and turned to wait. Rumple pulled at the heavy metal gate, and a strange throb shot up his arm, tightening his chest.

 _ **What . . .**_

After a moment the ache passed, and he eyed the gateway warily.

 _ **A phantom pain. The remnants of a pirate's work.**_

Belle stared. _Hook. Rumple could feel the attack? Even in stasis he . . ._

The brunette shook her head slowly, trying to rationalise. _No._ That couldn't be it. _We're in the past. This—this must be where Hook attacked him before. Where he was poisoned._ She bit her lip, recalling the loving phone call from a man who, to her, had been ostensibly a stranger. _"I'm dying, sweetheart." Even then I could sense his honesty; could tell that his words, and his feelings, were true. What changed? The way he felt, or my ability to read it?_

Eyes narrowed in thought, Belle followed as Rumple began to climb the stairs, leaning heavily on his cheap wooden cane and the metal railing. She slowed her pace to match his, her heels silent against the steps as she glanced back at the foyer—at the little wooden table by the doors and the posters tacked to the walls. _I thought I was returning to the hospital._ _To Storybrooke. How long have I been gone? Is my body just sitting there wi—_

 _Oh._ The young woman stopped suddenly. _Henry._

 _Crack._ Ahead, Rumple caught his foot against a step and his cane clattered loudly against the stairs before he hastily retrieved it, cursing his ungainliness—no doubt the result of fatigue. Lurching back into motion, Belle twisted at the base of her ring-finger. _I've thought about the rules; about what Henry told me, but I haven't really thought about him. He was going to wait for me to phone him. I should have tex—_

"Augh," Rumplestiltskin gave a short gasp, his hand over his heart.

"Rumple!" Belle trotted rapidly up the steps to join him, her face etched with concern, but he was already straightening and rubbing at his chest. Another brief, shooting pain. Stretching his jaw, he took a deep breath and continued to ascend.

 _ **Nausea is to be expected. That coach journey was not only tedious, it was also most uncomfortable.**_

The brunette eyed him anxiously, trying to reassure herself. _At least I know the ending to this story. He comes back. He comes back to me. Nothing . . . nothing_ happens _to him._

 _ **And sitting all night at a bus stop is not an experience I ever intend to repeat.**_

They passed the corridor for the third floor and continued climbing. Lightheaded, Rumple halted again, leaning heavily against the metal stairwell. He closed his eyes: it was preferable at least to watching the room spin.

 _ **A little food, perhaps. I'd forgotten how abhorrently dependent the mortal body is.**_

He began to move once more, his breath short and his grip on the bannister white-knuckled. But the exit to the fourth floor was in sight at last.

 _ **It's been . . . what? Two days?**_

 _You used to skip meals in the Dark Castle. But here, in a Land Without Magic, you uh, you can feel the difference._ Belle looked down as she scratched the base of her ring-finger. _Maid, friend, wife. I've been so many things to you. Married you and banished you. Judge, jury, executioner._

 _ **No . . . no matter. There will no doubt be some tinned nourishment in the apartment. Bae would have . . .**_

Again Rumple paused, but not because of a palpable ache. It was a different kind of pain.

Belle looked up, and he almost seemed to follow her gaze. With a slight cough Rumple walked on, exiting the stairs and limping through a corridor lit by large spherical bulbs that hung from the walls. The green paint had peeled away in patches, exposing a brown under-layer, and there was an indistinct smell of urine. As they approached Room 407, the sorcerer thought for a moment that he could hear faint voices within.

 _ **No doubt a trick of the subconscious, dredging up the, ah, the family reunion last I was here.**_

Keys poised beside the lock, Rumplestiltskin hesitated, remembering the last time he'd seen this door burst open. An emotional and joyous reunion between father and son, indeed. But not for him.

 _ **Bae. You came back for me.**_

 _ **I came to make sure you didn't hurt her.**_

Beside him Belle shivered. Those words sounded familiar somehow. And, with more than a twinge of discomfort, she realised why. After Isaac and Rumple's twisted story had come undone, she had burst into the shop to find the former leaving and the latter leaning breathlessly against a counter, his happy ending unravelled. And despite that—despite everything—he'd had hope. _"Belle. You came back for me."_ She gnawed on a lip, recalling her heated answer: _"I came back to make sure you weren't going to try to hurt anyone else"_

 _. . . I haven't said it yet, but I will. And there's nothing I can do about it._

 _ **Pain makes me stronger.**_

 _I was your strength._

The key clicked in the lock.

* * *

"Urh," Regina grimaced and delicately spit the slice of apple into a tissue, glad that she was alone in the office. Absorbed in the report on her desk, she'd been holding a piece of the fruit absently as she read—and apparently for long enough that its sharp white flesh had turned brown and floury. Footsteps echoed in the foyer and she started.

 _Perhaps not as alone as I thought._

"Hey Mom"

"Henry," she smiled, pleasantly surprised to find that it was her son barging in, instead of some irate townsperson, "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing—I've been looking all over for you," he announced, sliding into the chair opposite her desk and grabbing an orange from the fruit bowl. _Not exactly chocolate-frosted doughnuts, but hey, better than nothing._ "The house, the vault, the camp . . ."

"Why wouldn't I be here? I am still the Mayor after all," she glanced briefly at the wall behind him—a wall which had once featured a gaudy portrait of nesting bluebirds—and tried to repress a shudder.

"It's Sunday," the boy pointed out, setting to work on peeling the citrus fruit. _Why does everyone keep forgetting that?_

 _Oh._

"Fair point," Regina admitted, silently admiring Henry's ever-increasing appetite—no doubt set to fuel another growth spurt. At his questioning glance she elaborated slightly, "Well, with all the research into finding a certain missing Sheriff, I've somewhat slipped behind on my paperwork." _You'd think that after facing so many perils, the residents of Storybrooke would learn how to fill out tax-claim forms correctly._

She looked up to find her son staring worriedly at the remaining segments of orange, "What's wrong?"

"I couldn't get back into the memories," he muttered sheepishly.

"You were going to go _back_? Henry, you didn't te—" but her indignation was cut short as the boy held up his hands.

"I know . . . I know. But I need your help. Belle's gone looking for the dreamcatcher—the one Mom and Mr. Gold used when they . . . when they, uh," he trailed off guiltily, mentally kicking himself for not thinking that sentence through.

"When they thought I'd killed a cricket," Regina finished for him, more sharply than she'd intended to, "and turned to a mongrel as their murder witness. I recall"

Henry's expression brightened, "Can you work it?"

The Mayor arched an eyebrow, "Please. If Miss Swan could utilise it in one of her first attempts at magi—if, if _Emma_ could do it," she corrected, her voice softening a little as Henry mirrored her own sardonic expression, "then so can I"

That earned her a beam. Henry popped the last piece of fruit into his mouth, and stood, holding her handbag out to her.

"We're going _now_?"

"I'll call Belle while we walk," he offered, and she stood in spite of herself—or rather, in spite of the in-tray overflowing on her desk.

As they locked up and flicked the lights off, Regina gave Henry a perplexed glance, trying not to sound too relieved.

"And why exactly is it that you couldn't get back into Gold's cranium? The dust didn't work?"

"I was hoping you could help us figure that part out," he admitted, "But, until we do, maybe this dreamcatcher thing can keep Operation Dart-Frog . . . erm, hopping." _Like a fly-paper for memories._

Regina paused outside the building, and gave her son a long look. _The Sheriff and her superpower might be missing, but a little directness can work wonders._

"Henry, did anything happen while you were in Gold's memories? Anything that you're not telling me?"

The boy swallowed, but fixed her with a steady gaze. _Sometimes we have to lie to protect the people we love._

"Not that I can think of"

* * *

 _ **Bae. The apartment may—may still smell of him.**_

Bracing himself for the influx of raw memories, Rumplestiltskin gently shouldered open the door. Wishing she could take his hand, could give him any kind of supporting gesture, Belle followed close behind.

But as it swung open, Rumple's eyes met another's, and he did a double take.

 _ **What in the seven hells—?**_

Looking over his shoulder, Belle's mouth dropped open. _Robin?_

The Dark One's eyes fell to take in Marian crouching on the floor, a young boy in her arms. Roland. The thief was scanning Rumple, looking just as startled. In his hand, a breadknife glinted.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Rumplestiltskin breathed.

Wide-eyed, Belle tried rapidly to take in the situation—a rather disordered, scruffy apartment, a cloth on the table, a family of three in a protective stance—and drew a blank. _Good question._

As Marian stood, the bandit threw the query back at him indignantly, "What are _you_ doing here?"

 _ **So, the wand-thief and his freshly thawed wife are claiming squatters' rights? I think not.**_

"That's none of your concern," the sorcerer's voice rose slightly, incredulous and glowering, as they eyed his tousled suit and unwashed hair, "Your concern is removing yourself from the premises. This . . . this is my son's home." Just saying the words made him feel stronger—unlike them, he had a _right_ to be here, "You're trespassing"

The librarian stepped forward slightly, looking between their faces. _Why . . . why would Robin and Marian come here? And . . . why_ _does this feel familiar?_ She couldn't shake the feeling that someone had told her about Hood laying claim to Rumple's property. _A memory from a different time? A different world?_

"No," the outlaw replied firmly, and Rumplestiltskin tried not to flinch as he waved the knife around; he was already more than aware of his physical vulnerabilities without some armed thief needing to remind him. "This is our home now, and we're not going anywhere." His posture was aggressive, and even little Roland shook his head.

"Neal," Belle breathed, clicking her fingers and speaking to no-one in particular, "Neal told me that Robin Hood had taken up residence in his father's castle the last time he was there. Before we found it together and uh, and opened the vault . . ."

"Look," with a sigh the older man tossed his keys impatiently onto the coffee table, "I really don't have time for this. I've got business to attend to"

Robin scoffed, clearly taking in his unkempt appearance, "What business could you possibly have in a world without magic?"

"The business of my happiness. Now get out," he growled tightly, embarrassed and loathing the idea of having acquaintances from Storybrooke see him in this . . . condition.

 _ **What if word got back to Belle? If she ever saw me like this . . .**_

"I uh," Belle lowered her gaze to the floor briefly, flushing slightly.

Something clicked behind the outlaw's eyes and he gave a knowing smirk, "Oh, you're here to find the Author, aren't you?"

 _Isaac._ The librarian thought with a jolt of Henry—of the pen. _We can ask him. Who better to ask than Henry's predecessor? . . . I only hope I can remember my own thoughts as well as_ _Rumple's._

Beside her, Rumplestiltskin looked down fleetingly, trying to ignore the increasing tightness in his chest. He could rest later, after he'd shown these intruders on their merry way. "So she told you. Of course she did. Well, then," he cleared his throat, his voice low, "you'll also know that if I don't find the Author, Regina won't get her happy ending, either," he cast a long, meaningful glance at Marian, "Which might be good for you, too"

 _Regina?_ Belle frowned. The Mayor had sent the Locksley family out across the town line to cure Marian's frozen heart, with money and a map. That much she knew. _But . . . but she wouldn't have just given away Neal's apartment without—without consulting Rumpl—_

"I'm sorry, but I will not succumb to your games," Robin replied, his brow furrowed stubbornly, "I know better than to trust you"

Belle looked helplessly between them. _He spared your life Robin, in the Enchanted Forest. And in doing so, all your lives . . ._

Rumplestiltskin could feel his heart palpitate strangely, his fingertips tingling as the outlaw pointed resolutely at the floor, his voice raised, "I have a wife and child. We need this home, and we're keeping it!"

 _ **This isn't . . . I can't . . .**_

Belle stared at the little family, and found that she was resting a hand instinctively over her heart. Her eyes narrowed in quiet anger. _Actually, that is_ exactly _what Regina would have done. Take first, ask questions later. She di—_

"No, no," Rumple began, but he felt his breath snatch away from him, and a sharper spike of pain needle through his chest. Leaning heavily on his cane, and trying to raise his head, he attempted to continue. Belle turned to him apprehensively. The last time she'd heard him this breathless was just before he fell to the shop floor.

 _Rumple . . . ?_

As he took a gasp of air something seemed to solidify unnaturally within his heart, and black spots dotted his vision. "Gah," he exhaled, his hand clawing at his chest in the intuitive but vain hope that he could remove the organ, and see the issue for himself. But here in a Land Without Magic his fingers could only scratch uselessly at his shirt.

Belle shook her head wildly as his knees buckled. _No, no, this doesn't happen yet. Not now, not here._

Rumplestiltskin collapsed heavily to the floor, landing on his back as his cane clattered on the wooden boards.

"No!" Belle threw herself down beside him, leaning so that her hair framed his face, and frantically trying to defy the apparent laws of memory-walking in order to _do_ something. _Change_ something.

Around her, the world began to grow dimmer, the noises dense and blunted.

 _No, no. No._

"Gold?"

Robin seemed to process the situation in slow motion, and the last thing Belle saw was the outlaw—the man she'd rescued from being skinned alive by the Dark One—leaning over her husband, calling out a word that melted into nothingness as everything went black.

". . . Gold! Gold?"

* * *

Regina watched, hands on hips, as Henry searched the shop. _Five missed calls later, and still no bookworm._

She tried to clamp down on the strange anxiousness in her stomach, but her eyes glazed over worriedly as she thought. _I got lucky this time. Henry only saw Gold as a peasant. Strange as_ that _idea is._ Shifting uneasily, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, the nail smooth against her lips. _If Henry gets back into the memories, he might see me. See for himself exactly how murky my past is._ Her jaw tightened. _Rumplestiltskin may have made me that way, but my actions were my own. And knowing that your mother used to go out slaughtering the masses is somewhat harder to gloss over when you see it first-hand._ Her dark eyes narrowed slightly. _Particularly when the masses include half of his family. And the majority of Storybrooke._

The old sinking feeling had returned—the same one she'd felt when the tentacruel double act had mentioned her former misdeeds in front of her son. _In Henry's eyes, I went from the woman who raised him, to the Evil Queen to . . ._ She leant heavily on the cabinet beside her. _Mom. What if I go back, because he goes back?_

"I said that all I found in the back was an empty box," Henry reiterated, jolting her out of her reverie.

"Right," her voice was soft.

"I think we should head to the hospital, Mom"

"The hospital," she repeated absently, "Yes"

 _At least the Wicked Bitch of the West is safely tucked away. This town has enough troubles to panic over without our latest wrong-doer of the week coming to the public attention. I can just see the Storybrooke Mirror now._

* * *

This darkness was strange, different, and Belle swore she could see faces within it. Hear voices, distant and cold. A flash of green light, the sound of weeping, a child's cry and something shattering. _What's happening? Rumple!_ She felt a peculiar warmth brush her nose—and with a jolt gasped into life once more.

 _ **Bae . . . Belle.**_

 _Rumple._

The light was almost blinding and she blinked rapidly, sheltering her eyes with her hands. Her head ached and she was surrounded by strange noises, familiar and unpleasant: beeping, humming and whirring. The smell of disinfectant hung in the air. As her eyes adjusted to the harsh florescent light, the young woman became aware of a crowd of people surrounding something, their voices hushed and urgent. Finding that she was sitting on a cold vinyl floor, she stumbled gracelessly to her feet. Something deep within Belle told her that this was a place she did not like. She fought to cling on to the instinct, to think. A place she had resided in for too many years.

" _You've been locked up long enough"_

 _Hospital._

"Rumple!"

With a choked gasp she realised what lay on the bed ahead of her, and as the doctors and the nurses gradually moved away, she saw his body. Her vision was strangely blurred—almost like looking through a misted window—but she knew it was him, his eyes half-open, hair matted and tousled.

"No, no—Rumple please!" she cried out, but her useless, ghostly hands wouldn't obey her, wouldn't shake his shoulders. Her cheek pressed against where she should have been able to feel his, and she whispered desperately to him.

" _Please_ "

His eyes fluttered open fully, and her panic gave way to an overwhelming surge of relief, her pulse racing with adrenaline. A nurse moved through Belle, checking various drips and monitors, but she refused to budge, shaking in gratitude. No matter how firmly the logical side of her mind tried to persuade her that he couldn't _really_ have died—that this was the past and she knew how the story went—the danger had felt more real than she wanted to remember.

Together, their hands not quite entwined, husband and wife drifted in and out of consciousness for several minutes, until at last Rumple's senses returned in full, Belle's followed, and the world was given clarity. She could think clearly once more.

"Mr . . . Gold?" a medic had appeared with a clipboard.

Belle looked down at the wristband they'd put on him, the word 'Gold' printed out neatly. _Well, I suppose Robin could hardly have given them any of his other names._ She looked around the small area. _Robin. Is he here? He called an ambulance?_

Rumplestiltskin blinked, breathing slowly and taking in the room. A doctor had started to talk to him, and he nodded distantly, taking in a few words at a time. ". . . Cardiac arrest . . . rehabilitation . . . your coronary arteries . . . with cholesterol levels as . . . old lacerations . . . exercise can be . . . going to ask a few questions so . . ."

"Yes . . ." the sorcerer breathed, hoping she would leave soon and allow him to think.

 _Oh, Rumple._ Belle brushed a hand over his hair—at least if she couldn't make contact with him, she had her other senses—could still smell his familiar scent, disguised as it may be by hospital sterilisation and two days without his favourite cologne.

The Dark One blinked, realising that the physician was waiting for him to say something. He endeavoured to gather his wits somewhat, all the faster to be rid of her.

"I, uh . . ."

"I asked you if you were a smoker, sir"

 _ **Not unless you count me appearing in great wafts of it for effect. I'm a . . . a s-showman at heart, dearie.**_

Despite herself Belle chuckled.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head slightly, and then stopped immediately.

 _ **Dizzying. Bad idea.**_

"Any history of heart disease in the family?"

"No," he replied shortly.

 _ **And very little history of family.**_

Nodding, the doctor flipped over a page on her clipboard, "And are you in a high-stress job, would you say?"

The sorcerer shifted slightly, becoming aware that he was in one of those awful hospital gowns.

 _ **Thank the gods I was unconscious for that part.**_

"Uh, yes. Yes, you could say that," he murmured, somehow doubtful that there would be a little 'Dark One' box for her to check.

"And do you get sufficient rest?"

"You haven't been under a sleeping curse," Belle prompted teasingly, but her smile faded as Rumple's face fell. _Oh. The uh, the nightmares._

"I get enough," he muttered irritably.

 _ **Why won't this damned woman leave me alone?**_

The medic seemed to take his impatience for embarrassment, "You know, cardiovascular failure is very common in men of your age"

 _ **Oh I doubt that, dearie. Most men of my age have been dust for centuries.**_

The doctor gave him a kind smile, "And with the right adjustments in diet and exercise, a second heart attack can be quite avoidable"

 _ **I'll just jog away from my bad deeds then, shall I?**_

"Would you like a glass of water?"

Rumplestiltskin made to shake his head, but stopped abruptly, thinking. He cleared his throat.

 _ **Given my . . . situation, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to make full use of the facilities here.**_

"Food?" he croaked, and indicated the plastic bag nearby with his possessions, "And a . . . a charger, for my phone?"

"I'll see what I can do. For now, you focus on getting some rest," she headed to the door, "Oh, I forgot to ask. Are you comfortable with receiving visitors?"

If he hadn't been in quite so much pain, the Dark One might have laughed.

 _ **Oh yeah, and make room on the table for the all the cards and grapes I'll be receiving.**_

Belle gave him a sad smile, and made a mental note to brighten up his room in the Storybrooke ward. _If he—_ when— _he wakes, he's going to wake up to a bedside table full of cards, even if I have to write them all myself._

He gave a short nod to the doctor, just to be rid of her, and settled into his thoughts. Belle brushed a spectral hand through his hair, and perched on the bed.

 _ **So. It happened more quickly than I expected. I suppose living slightly 'rough' may have been a factor.**_

The librarian tilted her head as she studied his sombre expression. _'It'?_

Rumple began to twist his wedding ring round his finger pensively, the large amethyst cool to the touch. It had been some time since he'd examined his own heart, but even then there had been that resolute glimmer of red, nestled in amid the coal-black.

 _ **A brief flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness.**_

His gaze stayed on the golden band. With Bae gone, there was only one person keeping such a flame—weak as it was—lit at all.

 _ **Belle.**_

His eyes travelled over the ring, onto the skin beyond. He not only felt older without magic: he looked it. Either that, or he didn't know the back of his hand like—well, like he should. Exhaling as gently as he could, the sorcerer lay his head back into the pillow, waiting for the latest influx of palpitations to pass.

The young woman watched as pain snagged his features. _I'm your ability to love? Neal and I . . . we're the flicker of red?_

 _ **I wronged her. And . . . in hurting her, I hurt myself.**_

He dug his fingernails hard into his palms as his chest tightened involuntarily, sending him into a paroxysm of wheezing and coughing. When it subsided he forced himself to concentrate harder.

 _ **Think. What could reverse the damage? Fix a heart leaden with corruption.**_

His brows creased. Time appears to be running out—just like magic, it works differently here. And returning to Storybrooke before the last trace of light is snuffed out is looking increasingly impossible.

 _ **It appears the expiration date on my . . . my humanity is finally in view.**_

Breathing ragged, Rumplestiltskin fought to control his fear.

 _ **Think. Preserve the heart or face the death of the soul . . . more than the soul. The vessel too. Out here, without magic, all of me will perish.**_

His eyes widened.

 _ **Cor aut Mors.**_

Belle frowned slightly, running through the simple Latin translation in her mind. _Heart or Death?_

 _ **Of . . . course. Emma's guardian ape. The simian salesman.**_

The librarian tilted her head, confused. From the bustle of the hallway, a noise drew closer. Startled, the Dark One blinked his eyes open again drowsily, unaware that he'd closed them.

 _ **Footsteps. More . . . ignorant doctors?**_

Rumple frowned at how laboured even his thoughts had become.

 _ **Not—not good.**_

For the purposes of thinking clearly, he really should reject these drugs that they insisted on pumping into him—this morphine.

 _ **The last thing I need is an addled . . . an addled brain.**_

But the coward in him faltered. Relief from the discomfort was sweet—the acute throbbing in his chest had dulled slightly as the drip worked its own kind of magic; and compared to a bus stop bench the firm hospital mattress felt practically luxurious.

 _ **Just for a little longer.**_

He endeavoured to calm his arduous breathing and tried to ignore the remaining flickers of pain which plagued each intake of air. Footsteps grew closer, and as the thief entered the room slowly, Rumplestiltskin attempted to disguise his surprise.

Belle glanced up, matching him in disbelief. _Robin Hood. He uh, he came back for Rumple._

 _ **So. He stayed. His hero's conscience wins out against the . . . distaste for the monster. Excellent. I can—can use that.**_

Robin approached the bed, "What did the doctors say?"

Rumple paused, his voice strained and low, "Well, only what their small minds can comprehend. Prattling on about diets and exercise," he kept his tone dry.

 _ **As if low-fat dairy products were the answer to all my problems.**_

With a deeper breath he admitted, "They tell me it was a h-heart attack," annoyed at himself for stumbling over the word 'heart'. It always reminded him of her, of the beautiful lilt of her voice—an accent you wouldn't soon forget—and that caused a different kind of ache.

 _ **All you'll have left is an empty heart and a chipped cup . . .**_

Belle shivered slightly, still unused to hearing her own voice echo through his mind, much as he thought of her.

"But you have other ideas," the thief's wry prompt drew him back from his thoughts.

Rumplestiltskin blinked slowly, staring at his sheet-covered feet at the end of the bed. "My problem isn't physical. It's moral". He looked up at the outlaw, weighing together what he knew of the man. Wand-stealer. Glamour-user. Man with a 'code'. Father.

 _ **Honesty will be best with him, being . . . clear about my demise if he doesn't assist. He can have the moral high-ground with pleasure—it always makes heroes a little more—more receptive.**_

"All the dark deeds I've done . . . they've taken their toll, poisoned my heart . . . thickened the blood". He could feel Robin's eyes roaming over his incapacitated form.

 _ **Good. He's a charity-worker, a giver to the less fortunate. I—I can use that.**_

Sighing gently, Belle gave her husband a reproachful look. _You don't always have to look for people's weaknesses. Sometimes, they just want to help._

"Back in Storybrooke, I used magic to protect myself. But out here . . ." Suddenly his vulnerability was not for show.

 _ **I'm alone. A cripple in more ways than one.**_

". . . I won't last without some"

Belle looked at her hands. "You uh, you never told me that your heart was in danger," her eyes narrowed, "Is that one of the reasons you brought magic to Storybrooke? You were . . . dying, even then?"

Robin's gaze had grown slightly condescending—a rare liberty when conversing with the most feared sorcerer in the Enchanted Forest—but he spoke with a steady caution, "Well, unfortunately for you, Dark One, there is no magic in this world"

The older man controlled his expression carefully.

 _ **Well, that is unfortunate indeed. But not entirely accurate, dearie.**_

"True," Rumple breathed, tapping his hand against the bed. He became aware that one of his fingers was laden with a plastic clip which no doubt hooked him up to yet another machine, and resisted the urge to frown at it, "We can't create magic here. But we can use magical items if they were brought from elsewhere"

 _ **In this case, a land called . . . Oz.**_

He waited a moment, letting the information sink in. Studied the outlaw's sombre expression and calculated his words. "Remember something from our past . . . the Elixir of the Wounded Heart"

The librarian bit her lip. _Wounded h-heart? Did I—_

 _ **An item you failed to secure for me. This time, I can't afford another mistake.**_

Understanding dawned on Hood's face.

"Something I asked you to steal," Rumplestiltskin felt a dart of pain run up his arm into his chest, and inhaled sharply, "Well, I think I might know where some of it exists. Right here in New York City. And I need you to get it for me"

Belle watched as Robin shook his head, incredulous, "And why would I help you?"

A second question hung unspoken in the air— _why would_ anyone _help you?_ For a moment, there was something else in Hood's eyes, something softer than suspicion. Pity.

With a growl, the sorcerer reached abruptly forward and grabbed the thief by the front of the shirt.

"Rumple . . ." Belle cautioned, jumping at the unexpected movement.

 _ **Because heroes make the best puppets.**_

For a moment, fear flashed in the outlaw's eyes, and the exiled Dark One felt a morbid ripple of satisfaction. Of power.

 _ **My reputation precedes me still.**_

The sorcerer's voice grew lower, more assertive. His eyes were cold and his words perfectly measured, "For the same reason you left the woman you love. You left Regina because you're a man with a code," a parody of amusement twisted at his lips.

 _ **I knew a man with a code, who challenged a cripple to a duel.**_

"A man of honour. And that, despite everything, is the reason why you will save me". He released Robin without moving his hand, allowing the thief to back away from him. After that, he simply had to wait for the ill-fated man to realise that his own morals were his fetters.

Belle shook her head, watching as the outlaw gave a grudging, tight-lipped nod; as Rumple scrawled down a phone number and fragments of an address, his face twisted into a cruel half-smile.

As Robin reached the door, the sorcerer held up a hand, "Oh, just one more thing"

The thief turned to face him begrudgingly, his expression dour. Rumple's voice lowered to a threatening growl, "Whether you succeed or not, one thing is certain. You will speak of this to no—no resident of Storybrooke"

 _ **The icicle and the child I'll allow. Promises are made faster when there's . . . leeway.**_

Robin gave him a confused glare, "And why would you care who I speak to?"

 _ **It's not nice to . . . spread rumours.**_

"That's my business," he answered shortly, and the outlaw gave a final nod.

Under Belle's gaze, as soon as the bandit left Rumplestiltskin's brow creased, as he allowed his mask to fall a little, revealing the cost conversation had cost him.

She shook her head. _But I've seen Robin back in Storybrooke since—since the Apprentice removed the darkness. Why wouldn't he have said something then?_ She racked her brain. _And where was Marian?_ She couldn't recall seeing either her or their young boy since Regina drove off to New York without warning. _I guess—I guess the others only tell me what's going on when I can be of use to them._

Panting with effort, Rumple lay back heavily into the pillows, his heart racing irregularly.

 _ **Farewell thief, I—I expect I'll never see you again.**_

Belle sat up straighter, and turned to look at him. _Robin doesn't . . . he doesn't come back? You don't believe in your own plan?_

 _ **And if I do . . . the price will be a steep one. Bae's apartment.**_

The Dark One cleared his throat, and looked about the room, forcing away his doubts and analysing the structure of the building—searching, as ever, for escape routes. Under the florescent light he felt exposed—interrogated.

 _ **At least I'm in a private room, away from the common rabble.**_

A small part of his mind retorted that he _was_ the common rabble. Once upon a time, at least.

 _ **Spending more than one day in a h-hospital is not my intention.**_

The librarian gave him a sad smile, allowing her mind to drift back to where both their bodies really lay. _I guess when you know what the future holds, the past is full of irony._

"Sir?"

Rumplestiltskin started slightly, making Belle balk.

A nurse had appeared, bearing a generic brand of phone charger with the label 'Hospital Property – Do Not Remove' and a tray of food, covered with tin foil. Rumple waited silently as she set his phone up for him, and placed the meal on the moveable table above his bed. As soon as she left, his hands flew to the device, impatiently powering it on.

"Come on, come on" he growled, and when the phone finally beeped into life he held it in his palm, staring intently at the screen.

It took several moments for Belle to deduce what he was waiting for. Texts, missed calls, voicemails. Any sign that she had tried to contact him. That anyone had. _Oh, Rumple._ Her heart sank. She knew the answer. Still he waited, occasionally checking his inbox or dialling the voicemail retrieval number with no success. Eventually, his hunger for food outweighed his hunger for reassurance or information, and he peeled back the foil fervently, mumbling to himself about the length of time one had to wait for devices to load.

 _ **I'll check in a few more minutes. By then it will ha—**_

 _Crack._ As soon as Rumplestiltskin saw the contents of the tray, he recoiled violently and without warning, sending the plastic platter clattering over the floor.

Belle leapt to her feet, heart racing at the sudden noise. _What's wrong? What happened? Why did . . ._

She paused, staring at the ruined remains of the meal. A nurse barged into the room, and rolled her eyes at the mess, glaring at Rumple.

"What's the matter?" she asked, "You don't like meat pie?"

Shaking slightly, the sorcerer closed his eyes and leant into the bed, trying to fight the nausea rising up in his stomach. The last time he'd seen that particular dish presented on a tray, it had been pushed under the confines of his cage.

 _ **I'm not hungry.**_

 _ **Eat.**_

The painful compulsion of the dagger, throwing him to his knees, forcing him to stuff the pastry down his throat, while _she_ smirked above him. If his stomach hadn't been empty now, he would have retched at the memory.

Belle stared at him shock, but his eyes were closed and her vision was already dimming in response. She could hear the nurse tutting as she cleared up the mess, but she wasn't sure how much time passed before Rumple blinked his eyes open, his breathing a little less ragged. His stomach growled and he bit back the urge to call a member of staff. After that little display, they were hardly going to jump at his every beck and call. Still, his belly rumbled. Unexpectedly, his thoughts turned to a certain Sheriff.

 _ **What I wouldn't give for half a pastrami sandwich.**_

He turned his face to the wall.

 _ **Gods above, these drugs must be addling my brain, if all I can think of is . . . what did she say? Nice, fatty pastra—**_

The phone began to ring shrilly, cutting off his line of thought.

 _ **Belle!**_

He scrambled to pick it up, pulling it from the charger, hands trembling and fumbling with the buttons.

"Gold?"

His face fell.

 _ **No . . . the thief.**_

Biting back his disappointment, he muttered "Yes"

"I found it. The Wizard of Oak," the outlaw didn't sound impressed, "That was his cover while in our world." His voice was distorted slightly, as horns blared and traffic thundered.

"Well, apparently being great and powerful did not mean witty," Rumple replied wryly, "But he was effective." The sorcerer braced himself, "Zelena sent him to New York to keep an eye on Emma.  
She would have been a fool to send him without precautions magical charms, potions"

"And Zelena's no fool," Robin replied.

The corner of Rumple's mouth twitched, and he fought to keep his voice disjointed as he quietly corrected the thief, "No, she wasn't"

Belle watched the ghosts dance in his eyes long after the call had ended.

As a reader, and as his wife, she could understand just how much the past tense mattered. It kept the witch where she belonged. In the past.

* * *

"Well, there's your answer," Regina said softly, "One unconscious librarian, not a single feather of a dreamcatcher, and an hour gone from the day"

"I don't understand," Henry murmured, torn between frowning at the librarian in confusion and deeming her utterly brilliant. "How come she could get into the memories?"

The Mayor sighed, agitated by the idea that their knowledge of memory-walking was increasingly outweighed by their ignorance. This sense of being utterly in the dark reminded her far too much of being tutored by a certain imp. _But glaring at a comatose invalid won't get us anywhere either._ Before she could endeavour to reply, Henry was already moving away to pick something up from the bedside table, turning it over in his hands.

"The fire-dream pendant," she murmured. _I suppose a sleeping curse is the closest relative we have to this sort of thing._ "Memories and dreams," she began, and Henry turned to face her, "there's a chance that they may share some rules"

 _Perhaps it's another Netherworld_ , she considered. _What did Gold say? A world between life and death? A world that felt real, but wasn't?_ His voice echoed in her head. _"It's remarkable you'd cast a curse you knew so little about."_ She scowled at the recollection. _Not helpful, imp._

Henry was looking at Belle, a strange expression on his face, but Regina's question brought him out of his reverie, "The fire-dream realm. How much do you remember?"

"Not all that much," he admitted, but the optimism was returning to his eyes, "But then, I wasn't the only visitor"

"Excellent," the Mayor muttered sarcastically, "Dinner with the Charmings"

* * *

Rumplestiltskin drifted in and out of consciousness: and Belle with him. The strain on his heart was growing, and to feel it beating so irregularly kept putting his mind off-kilter, no matter how clearly he tried to rationalise his options.

The monitors beeped steadily around him, but he could sense the grains of sand slipping away, and so he stared at the phone, which lay on the little moveable table above his bed. The phone, which, he'd finally accepted, came up with no new messages and no missed calls because, quite simply, there were none. The phone which kept screaming at him to pick it up, to call Belle—to just _try_ —and yet was simultaneously loaded with rejection waiting to happen.

He wanted to do the brave thing, as Belle had always done. But he didn't know what that was. Summon up the courage to call her, or be valiant enough to leave her without the risk of guilt? Of knowing that by sending him across the town line, she'd been sentencing him to death?

Beside him, Belle sat on the bed, her hand over his as best as she could position it, trying her best to keep herself together. She hadn't just married a complicated man; she'd married a solitary, reticent person, used to his own company and having no-one to trust. To have such access to his thoughts uninhibited—it was a blessing, a curse and a terrible invasion of privacy.

 _ **I'm sorry, Belle**_

His mind whispered the words.

"I'm sorry too, Rumple," she murmured, her own voice breaking.

He allowed himself at last to think of that night. Of the feeling of chains whenever his dagger was used, or even held, by another: of what she had said. Closing her eyes, she dredged it all up too.

" _Do you remember the first time you saved my life? You traded for me"_

 _ **That wasn't the first time.**_

Belle blinked. _What?_

But he was already running over different words, playing the scene faster in his head, and she heard her own voice.

 _ **You told me that gauntlet could lead you to—to someone's weakness. To the thing they loved the most.**_

 _ **You-you don't understand . . .**_

Rumple lay, staring at his phone, his eyes glazed in thought.

 _ **. . . Oh, Belle. You didn't understand. A single word can undo an empire. Or the strings of a heart.**_

Heart thumping, the young woman stared at him. Neither of them noticed the footsteps.

 _ **When I—**_

Robin Hood walked into the room, a small, heart-shaped elixir in his hand.

 _ **You . . .**_

Rumplestiltskin stared at it for a moment in disbelief, before reaching out desperately, his breathing heavy.

"You found it!"

But the thief pulled it out of reach, and Rumple could only exhale sharply and fell back feebly against the bed. Belle stood, staring at the potion, her pulse still racing from reliving the night of the banishment.

"Indeed," the outlaw replied levelly, "And now that I've made good on my promise, we need to strike a deal"

The sorcerer held out a ready hand, knowing what would come, his heart pounding as the seconds ticked by. His voice was low, "Well, make it quick"

"Before this potion heals you, you will move on," he raised and lowered the bottle as he spoke, and Rumple's eyes followed it hungrily, "Your son's apartment belongs to me now, and I never want to see you there again"

 _ **I would not live to see it if I refused.**_

"It's yours," he breathed quickly, "Take it. Now give me what's mine"

Robin Hood set the potion carefully on the table, just out of reach, his hand still wrapped protectively around the glass as he stared at the Dark One, "Good riddance, Rumplestiltskin. Our dealings are done"

The outlaw left the room and Rumplestiltskin leant slowly forward, hating how much energy it took just to make his fingers reach the tray.

 _ **Damned bandit did that deliberately.**_

With a grunt of effort his shaking hand closed around the bottle at last, and he fell back against his pillows.

 _ **No matter. In a few moments, this degradation will be over.**_

"Goodbye . . . thief," he whispered, his breathing heavy as he uncorked the glass container. Heart hammering, he downed the mixture in a single swallow, immediately re-sealing the bottle and closing his eyes—waiting for the tendrils of magic to trill through him.

With bated breath, Belle watched as his fingers began to quiver.

It took Rumple a moment to realise that his hands weren't shaking in reaction to the powerful potion coursing through his veins, but rather with his own anticipation of the sensation. He stared at his left hand, confusion and bitter uncertainty clouding his eyes. The purple stone of his wedding ring glimmered mockingly back at him.

 _ **It should be . . . happening, by now.**_

As the seconds ticked by, hopefulness withered and an angry despair took its place, "It's not working," he mumbled, struggling to control the wild mess of fear and fury that arose as the implications sank in. "It's not working". His eyes fell to the empty potion decanter, in its nauseatingly romantic shape, sitting useless in his palm, "Why isn't it working?" he growled, flinging the bottle across the room. It hit the hospital wall and shattered.

Belle flinched, recalling a time when she'd once done similar. A hospital ward, a moment of fear and confusion—a fragile object hurled against the wall.

"Because it's not real magic"

Belle jumped, and Rumplestiltskin turned to face the speaker, his chest heaving in frustration. His eyes widened when he saw the heart-shaped bottle held indifferently in her palm—within it a perfect replica of the elixir he'd just consumed.

 _ **How?**_

They widened further when he took in the speaker.

 _ **The former ice sculpture.**_

Belle stared at the woman. _Marian?_

 _ **I don't understand.**_

"What?" Rumple breathed sharply, unable to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of him.

 _ **Why would she—? Perhaps . . . the morphine . . .**_

Marian's voice was playful, careless, "I tried to convince Robin to let you die, but he just wouldn't listen to reason," she walked to the foot of his bed, holding the vial up in plain sight. With a smile she turned to face him, "So here I am"

Realisation dawned on Rumple's face, and he pointed at the potion, "You switched the vials"

 _ **I drank a fake. Follow the bloody lady.**_

"I did," Marian nodded almost happily, her tone blithely cheerful, "The one you drank won't cure your heart, but it will lessen the effects of seven cold and flu symptoms"

"What?" Belle breathed, "Why would Marian . . .?"

Rumplestiltskin was staring at the outlaw's wife in alarm, for her gaiety was far more frightening than any threats or glowers. It reminded him of someone. "Don't worry, it's non-drowsy," she smiled, evidently enjoying his growing panic and uncertainty.

 _ **She wants me to die.**_

 _No, no, this is some mistake._

He struggled to voice his confusion, the pain in his chest increasing as his heart rate grew irregular. "Why are you doing this?" he tried to supress a flinch as the discomfort increased, "I've done you no harm"

Marian rolled her eyes, her expression thoughtful, "That's not exactly true". She tugged on the gold chain around her neck, arching her eyebrows. A small emerald stone fell into her fingers, and she raised the pendant, biting her lip with a smile.

Something within Rumple faltered. He recognised that smile.

 _ **No. Impossible.**_

The green jewel began to glow. As she stared at him delightedly, the woman changed—her appearance melting away to reveal her true form. She lowered the pendant.

Terror flooded through Rumplestiltskin, pulling the air from his lungs, as Belle's eyes widened.

"Zelena," Rumple breathed raggedly. His blood ran cold.

 _ **No.**_

Belle's hands flew to her mouth.

 _No, no she's dead. This doesn't happen, surely this doesn't happen . . ._

Rumple immediately began to struggle backward, pushing himself as far away as he could from the witch, eyes scanning the room for an escape route, a way out. Anything. But he could only writhe helplessly in the hospital bed, powerless, while the witch observed.

With a gasp, his eyes returned to her, "H-how is this possible?"

 _ **I watched you die.**_

"Imported magic, dear. Never travel between realms without it," Zelena cooed.

Rumple shook his head, raising a trembling hand—desperate to put any kind of distance between them. Belle stood protectively over him, aware as she was of her powerlessness in the realm. And of his.

"You remember the six-leaf clover from Oz, don't you?" the witch asked, smiling at the exiled sorcerer, "It's quite the effective glamour spell"

"No, no, I-" Rumple protested, his voice low, desperate to convince himself that this wasn't happening, "I killed you"

 _ **This is a dream—it-it has to be. Just another nightmare, she can't hurt—**_

"Mm, you tried," she nodded, crinkling her nose in thought, "When you stabbed me in that jail cell, I didn't die"

Rumplestiltskin could feel his pulse racing—and his heart rate rocketing with every moment that the witch didn't dissolve. Didn't confirm herself as merely a cruel trick of the mind.

"You won't hurt him," Belle growled, her voice low and threatening.

Zelena tilted her head, remembering, "My life force simply fled my body before it shattered. I had somewhere to go . . . Or should I say some time?"

 _ **No . . .**_

"You . . . followed Emma . . . through the time portal," Rumple gasped, panic sinking its sharp claws into his heart.

"Aah! That I did. And when I realized what Emma had planned for Marian, well, I knew I had to get in while the getting was good," she chuckled.

The librarian flinched at how so warm a sound could disguise so cold and callous an intent. _I have to warn the others. As soon as I get back, I have to . . ._

The Dark One placed a feeble hand over his chest, vainly trying to alleviate the pain. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears, even as he paled at her words.

"So I bided my time watching Emma, and her" she raised her hand in an impression, "one-handed lover scurrying about trying to right their mistakes, and . . ." her voice softened, "When I saw they planned on bringing Robin's wife back, I mean . . ." she laughed gleefully, "Inspiration struck!"

Rumplestiltskin listened mutely, trying to bite back the fear as he saw, once again, those all-too-familiar quirks of speech and gesticulations. Mannerisms that he'd previously watched through the bars of a cage.

"And then I struck," she looked at him, shaking her head softly, "For a few careless moments, they left her unattended, and that was all I needed". Zelena watched as Rumple tilted his head back against the pillow, his chest constricting in pain. "I killed her," she savoured the words, "And then I became her. I took her form"

Belle couldn't help but squeak out a stifled gasp, shaking her head.

Zelena gazed at Rumple, relishing his reaction—watching his little brain put two and two together.

 _ **Marian . . . never . . .**_

"Do you know, it wasn't easy not being me, but . . ." she gazed upward, recalling her sister's face when Robin's wife had reunited with him; she could practically taste the heartbreak, ". . . knowing that it would ruin Regina's happiness . . . Oh," she inhaled sharply, closing her eyes, "I mean, that made it worth every _dull_ moment in her body"

"Marian . . ." Rumple wheezed out the words, his pulse racing as his mind span, "never made the trip . . . to Storybrooke . . ."

"No," Zelena laughed girlishly, "No, dear". She began walking away from the foot of the bed—toward him.

"Get away from my husband," Belle growled: her voice almost guttural.

 _ **No.**_

Despite the agonising throb of his heart, Rumplestiltskin still tried briefly to move away, struggling against the hospital sheets. Belle threw herself over him defensively, but just as with the muggers, it was in vain. She wasn't real here. And Zelena was.

 _ **Please. Please, no . . .**_

Rumple raised a hand, but it was futile—not only helpless for lack of magic, he was now physically weaker than her. Instead, he stayed still and trembled as she drew closer, acutely aware of his own powerlessness.

 _ **Please don't touc—**_

"It was me all along. And, you know, no one's been the wiser," she rested an elbow on the bed and he gasped in trepidation, fighting to guard his expression, to draw on a mask over his fear. "Not her husband, not even her child," the witch breathed, twisting her face closer to him, delighting in the power she still held over him. She hadn't even brushed against him, and yet his body lay paralysed with dread. Zelena looked away thoughtfully, oblivious to the spectral brunette shaking with hatred and fear just inches from her.

 _ **She doesn't have the dagger. She doesn't ha—**_

"I mean, she's as dead as, well . . ." she turned back, and he could feel her words graze against his cheek, sharper than any kris blade.

"Your son"

 _No._

Rumplestiltskin gasped, his head falling back even as his feeble attempt at a mask dissipated. He closed his eyes.

 _ **Bae . . .**_

After a moment Belle's world went dark.

"Oh," Zelena clicked her tongue, "Oh, that's right". He could feel her hair brush him, could feel the warmth of her breath against his face, "I suppose that means you never avenged his death"

A stifled choke escaped Rumple's throat.

 _No . . . please . . . Rumple . . ._

 _ **. . . The Vault . . . Bae's . . . Bae's . . .**_

"That . . ." he felt her move closer, barely an inch between their faces, "You _failed_ "

 _ **Soul.**_

And finally, the same word she'd used when she last took his son from him.

" _Oops_ "

Beneath the delighted gaze of the witch, Rumplestiltskin's heart stopped, and the world fell into oblivion.

* * *

Black smoke. _Hello, Papa._ A burst of dazzling golden light. A kiss, soft against a rough cheek.

Black robes. A river of souls. Blue light dancing. Flames. Yellow orbs. _Erebus_. Vault. Barking.

Black sludge. Oozing, falling away. Blinding white light. Snow. _Rumple? . . . Belle. Bae!_

* * *

The first thing Rumplestiltskin became aware of was a distant beeping noise, and a strange heaviness in his mouth. Something obstructing his ability to breathe, and yet helping him to do just that. He felt a touch against his forehead.

A soft material—a cloth padding the sweat from his brow.

 _ **Belle . . .**_

His eyes opened slowly, vision blurred—a face above him. She was here—she was helping him, she—Rumple froze as the image sharpened.

 _ **Zelena.**_

He intuitively pulled away from her, pushing the back of his hand feebly against her body. As he did so he became conscious of the tubes and machines hooked up to him, and he faltered. His arms felt weak, as if even raising them required superhuman strength. Beside him, Belle thrummed into being once more, and choked back a sob when she saw the witch, and realised that those last few minutes had all been real. No nightmare.

 _All this happened to him._

The witch leaned in close, "Shh. Shush, dear. Don't try to talk," she continued to pat his face with the cloth.

He choked slightly, his attempt to move away causing the plastic pipe to grate against his mouth.

 _ **Please.**_

Belle's senses were as nearly as limited as his own; she felt as if her lungs were short of air, her vision was indistinct at the edges, and even moving seemed harder.

"Look at the magic in this world, Rumple. Hmm?" Zelena murmured, beginning to rub a hand along the pipe, "A tube that breathes for you"

He stared at her hand, her fingers gently beginning to pinch the plastic, "My, your predicament does look painful," she shook her head, her face just a hand-span from his. "You know, there's a time I would have relished this." He could feel his heart thump in dread.

 _ **No, no don't . . .**_

She raised the tube up, pinching harder and causing him to squirm deeper into the pillows as his ability to breathe was stalled, "And with your vendetta against me for the death of your son . . ."

 _No. Rumple. No!_

 _ **Please.**_

He made a gurgling attempt to gasp in air, but it was impossible, she was blocking off the ventilation as he writhed helplessly, "Wow. That would make this a _strong practical choice_ ," she smiled condescendingly, and his brows furrowed, face flushing as he suffocated.

Abruptly she released the pipe, and Rumple snorted desperately, drawing in a thin line of air.

"But, see, I'm not done telling you about my clever plan," she stroked his hair, leaning in closer as he attempted to shake his head in fear—in protest. Eyes closed, he felt her shift the weight of her elbow slightly as she spoke, and Belle's sight dimmed, "I was going to use my little Marian-glamour to steal Robin's heart, to make him fall in love with me, to steal Regina's fated true love."

He blinked his eyes open blearily, to see her staring zealously over his head, picturing her triumph, "How ultimate, you know? But I think that loss could _finally_ be a wound that doesn't heal." He flinched as she suddenly turned, her face drawing nearer as she spoke.

 _ **Regina . . .**_

"Don't you _dare_ touch him," Belle spat through clenched teeth, her own heart drumming painfully.

Rumplestiltskin watched as, with a sigh, the witch held up his hand and started playing with his wedding ring. "Sadly, it didn't take," she began to squeeze the bones in his fingers, venting her frustration, "I can't win his heart". Zelena pulled his arm back awkwardly toward her, and he tried uselessly to retreat further into the pillows, his face scrunching up in pain, "Something is standing in the way like a . . . like a stone wall."

 _ **Gah.**_

Breathing was becoming more and more difficult—the fear making his weak heart shudder and jolt and trepidation causing his stomach to roll.

"Could be fate," she continued, a maddening glimmer of frustration in her eyes, "Could be true love or some other bias in the universe towards those who _deserve happiness_. But whatever it is," she turned again and her pale eyes bore into his own darker ones—hers gleeful, his full of helpless rage and unadulterated loathing, "I am certain that there is an author who can simply _force_ a happy ending for me"

 _ **No . . .**_

Rumple blinked in understanding, the weight of her meaning sinking in further with each second.

"Please," Belle whispered, but this time she wasn't appealing to some unknown spirit to leave the memory—she was appealing for a realm-defying ability to step in, to change the course of events.

 _ **She wants . . .**_

"And if there's anyone that could _find_ him and _bend_ him to their will," Zelena stroked his hair, revelling in his powerlessness, "well, my money's on the Dark One"

She leant into closer and Rumple's stomach churned.

 _ **Please don't tou—**_

But she just mocked him with a jubilant smile, "Or should I say the deathly pale one?" she giggled, before her voice turned forceful, commanding.

"Anyway, whatever your plan is with the Author, I want my happy ending built into it," she smiled again, leaning her head against a hand, "You'd also have to stop trying killing me, of course"

"I make no promises," Belle growled, "I should never have asked him to spare you"

The sorcerer glared at the witch, his eyes cold and impotent, as she raised her hands in a mocking impression of him, rolling her words.

"But, dearie, what does old Rrrumple get out of it?" she chuckled, nodding at him, "I mean, you are aware I have a certain potion that fixes hearts," she hovered a finger above his heart, poking and pointing to articulate her point, "But I don't know if it could cure this little lump of coal you've got in your . . . Narrow. Little. Chest"

 _ **I will kill you. I will save Bae, save him . . .**_

Laughing softly, she turned to pout and nod encouragingly at him, "But it will get you back home"

 _That's how he comes back?_ Belle shook her head, her heart aching in a wild mixture of guilt, confusion, distress and fury.

"Yeah," Zelena breathed almost mutely, pointing at him, "Your life for mine."

 _ **Work . . . work with . . . my son's murderer?**_

"That seems rather fair," she announced, gazing over him, "Do we have a deal?" She rubbed a thumb over his eyebrow, "So what do you think? If we do," she leant closer, watching him carefully, "simply blink"

 _No . . ._

 _ **But . . .**_

Under her gaze, her nose crinkling in amusement, he held out for what felt like minutes.

 _ **If I die mortal . . . I won't go to the vault . . . won't take his . . . his place . . .**_

Beside Rumplestiltskin, Belle trembled.

 _ **What choice do I have?**_

At last, to the witch's palpable satisfaction, he allowed his eyes to close carefully.

"I knew you'd make the right decision, pet," she cooed, "And now there's just the small matter of collateral," Zelena ran a finger down the side of his cheek, "As I am paying you in advance, after all," her finger traced its way down to his wedding ring, and she smirked as his eyes widened.

 _ **No . . .**_

"And I know _exactly_ who I want to pick—should you fail"

* * *

Snow's voice was hushed, "Then we're to do this differently from how we've done everything else? We're not _together_ on this?"

The classroom was darker than Regina remembered, though whether that was more reflective of the approaching evening or the occupant teacher's current mood, it was hard to say. Charming sat on one of the desks, his back to them, as Snow gathered her books and papers, writing notes and marking chapters as if her life depended on it. They seemed to be having some sort of subtle domestic spat, the former Evil Queen observed. _Typical of the Charmings to vent their frustrations by dusting chalkboards and replacing pen-lids_ , she thought dryly.

She cleared her throat, "I hope we're not interrupting"

"Regina," Snow breathed, as she and her husband turned to face them, "Henry. No, of course not"

"Hey Grandma, hey Gramps," the boy smiled, joining his grandfather on the desk and slinging his bag underneath it.

"Snow was just preparing her instructions for the sub," Charming explained, giving Henry a friendly nudge with his shoulder.

"Sub? As in a substitute teacher?" the lad's brows furrowed, "You're not coming back to teach?"

"I uh . . ." his grandmother began shakily, staring at the pile of exercise books in her hands.

Charming gave a short cough and stepped in, "Snow wants to prioritise the search for Emma"

"But that's not fair. I want to help. You said—"

All three of the adults started to reply at once, but, despite Snow's voice being the softest, it was her words which carried through; "Emma wouldn't want you to miss school for her sake, Henry. Education is too important. But we _will_ find her." He almost didn't catch the last murmur, "We always do"

The boy disagreed with their assumptions about his Mom's opinion on school, but kept it to himself. _I skipped class all the time during Operation Cobra. The part of me that stole a car when everyone went missing—I'm pretty sure_ that's _the Emma part._ He remained silent nevertheless. After all, he'd almost perfected the pretend-to-obey-the-adults routine. The next step was just a matter of picking his moment.

It didn't take long for the conversation to turn to their pooled understanding of the memory and dream realms—or rather, the distinct lack thereof.

"So," Regina summarised, "Whilst recipients of a sleeping curse—"

"Victims," Snow corrected softly, but the Mayor ignored her.

"Whilst _recipients_ are always able to find their way back to the world that their soul resided in during the curse, it would seem that this is the opposite. It's a one-stop ticket"

"Unless Henry is the exception, and Belle can return," Charming countered.

Henry glanced at his arms thoughtfully: arms once covered in burns from the phantom fires, "Maybe the difference is that in the dreams you can gain something—like blisters—but in the memories . . ."

"Something is taken away?" the prince murmured, "A piece of you, that the . . . that the realm recognises?"

A moment passed. "It's getting late and we're going in circles," Regina said shortly. To her relief, no-one made to argue. "We won't know any more until the librarian wakes from her nap"

But as she and Henry made to leave, something made her turn back abruptly at the door, her eyes meeting her step-daughter's firmly, "You look terrible, Snow"

The teacher blinked in surprise.

Smoothing the lines of her suit, the Mayor ploughed on before the former princess had a chance to be affronted, "Dr. Clark stocks sleeping tablets at the Dark Star Pharmacy. I'm taking two, every other night. I recommend you do the same. We will find Emma, but turning into insomniacs won't help us to do it any faster"

Snow's mouth dropped open slightly and she tilted her head, the semblance of a smile at her lips, "Regina . . ."

"What?" the former Evil Queen replied coolly, "I just don't want to have to add a name change form to my barely surmountable pile of paperwork, when you decide that Porridge Grey is more accurate"

* * *

Whether the darkness closed in because the memories were shifting; or whether it was her own or Rumple's heart finally giving in, Belle didn't know. But the witch's face disappeared, and for that she felt relief.

The respite was short-lived. All at once the tumbling halted.

"We're uh, we're still here," Belle murmured flatly, not needing to look up from the pavement to confirm it, "Still in the memories"

 _ **The thief.**_

They were outside. It was cold and dark, the air still and filled with the rumbling of traffic and blaring of horns. It had been light outside, before—she'd gazed from the hospital windows. Ahead of them, Robin Hood stood by a bus stop, a box in his hands. Rumple limped over to him slowly. Belle followed, feeling numb and struggling to concentrate. She tried to take a deep breath. _I uh, I have to focus now. Later, later I'll . . ._

"I thought you never wanted to see me again," Rumplestiltskin murmured.

Robin sighed slightly, "Well, after all the trouble I went to, I wanted to make sure you were well." His smile was one of compassion.

 _ **I can't tell him . . .**_

Rumplestiltskin looked down, surprised and for a rare moment lost for words, "Well, I am. Thank you"

 _ **. . . If I do, she'll kill Belle . . .**_

 _Oh, Rumple . . ._

"And I wanted to give you something," the outlaw looked down at the box he carried, his voice soft, "It's from the apartment, your son Baelfire's things. There wasn't much left . . . I thought you might want to have it"

Rumple stared at the box, torn. Not for the first time that day, Belle's eyes filled with tears.

 _ **And if I take it, do I curl up with it on the street corner?**_

He could feel his head shaking, and the words tumbling out.

"No. No, thank you"

 _ **Watch . . . as my son's possessions are stolen . . . flogged . . .**_

"No?" Robin repeated, "Why not?"

 _How could you leave him? H-how could I?_

Excuses. He stepped into the mask, "Because these are the remnants of uh, Neal Cassidy," he gestured toward them, his words fractured slightly, "a boy who was in this land alone"

He took a deep breath, motioning to himself, "And all because his father was too much of a coward to hold on to what he had." Robin's gaze was disbelieving, though whether of his excuses or his remorse, the Dark One couldn't say. "I don't want a reminder of my failure," his breathing was strained, "a reminder that all I really wanted was happiness. And when I had it . . . couldn't recognize it," he nodded slightly.

 _ **Excuses can contain truth, too. The best lies do.**_

Robin echoed his nod and the regret in his eyes, looking down, "I know what you mean. With Marian . . . I wished her to come back every day. And then . . . when she did . . ."

"You were in love with another woman," Rumple finished.

 _ **I can't help him. We're both her prisoners now.**_

 _Rumple . . ._

The outlaw shook his head, smiling in confusion, "It's more than just that. She's . . . she's like a stranger to me now"

 _ **But maybe . . .**_

"Why did you marry her in the first place?" Rumple asked breathlessly.

Robin gave him an honest look, "'Cause I loved her"

The sorcerer leant heavily on his cane, "And you thought she was gonna be your happy ending"

 _ **. . . maybe I can lead him to the answer . . .**_

"Yes," the outlaw murmured.

"And is she?"

Robin seemed to be searching both Rumple's face and his own heart all at once, "I don't know"

 _ **I did. I knew mine, and I threw it away . . .**_

"Well," Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat quickly, "maybe you should take a piece of advice from a man who has," he swallowed, a wave of nausea rolling over him from the heavy fumes of the road, no doubt aided by his own empty stomach, "pushed away every chance at happiness because it was never enough." His smile was one of self-deprecating regret, "If it's within your grasp, if you know . . . where it is and who it's with . . ." he held out a hand, his eyes earnest, "then you should run to it, grasp it, and never let it go." His fist clenched, as if he too could feel happiness within his reach for a moment. But it was too late—far, far too late.

The thief nodded slightly, something new in his gaze. Respect?

 _ **Enough . . .**_

Rumple let his gaze fall, and he slowly turned away, beginning to limp along the road, unaware of his wife by his side. He walked until the throbbing of his ankle forced him to take in his surroundings—to see that the busy streets had given way to a small square of grass. A city's excuse for a park. He glanced around briefly at the deserted space, his eyes catching on a wooden bench beneath a tree. Hobbling over, his newly healed heart felt heavier than ever.

 _ **Just . . . a short rest.**_

Belle tucked her hands under her arms as Rumple lowered himself onto the bench, the bruises on his back complaining as he did so. It was growing darker, and she could swear that despite her waiflike form here her skin was prickling in the cold. _Something doesn't feel right._ The soft mauve fabric of her jacket didn't help to warm her fingers, even when she pulled down the sleeves. She took a seat next to her husband.

 _ **Oh Belle.**_

Rumplestiltskin was staring hazily at the stones beyond his feet, his fingers twisting at his wedding ring. He seemed numb too, almost oblivious to the sharp drop in temperature. The brunette watched him carefully, her gaze at once remote and crowded with emotion. She rubbed her hands together, trying futilely to generate even a little heat. _Why is it so cold?_

 _ **I didn't mean for this to . . . to happen.**_

With a long, heavy sigh Belle shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and allowed her heavy lids to flutter shut. _I didn't either. Not this. I would never ha—_

Something crinkled against her fingers, and her blue eyes flickered open once more. _What the—?_ Confused, she drew out a folded piece of paper. _Why would . . ._

She frowned at it, thinking hard. Suddenly her heart began to beat a little faster. _Mary Margaret said that the storybook appeared just when Henry was losing hope. Perhaps . . ._

A quiet sense of anticipation made her hands tremble as she opened the page out, spreading it against her knee. The librarian stopped short when she caught sight of her own handwriting, exhaling sharply. _The letter. My letter._

 _ **Perhaps I can w-write us a happy ending.**_

A message she had written in the depths of utter misery, to a man who would never read it. A letter to the beast she'd banished. Her cerulean eyes scanned the words, which seemed both excruciatingly familiar and utterly alien.

' _Rumplestiltskin, I know that after what I've done I will never see you again. But I have to put down in words all that I am feeling, if only to stop myself from growing mad with it all. You betrayed me Rumple. Deceived me again and again. I loved you—truly, truly loved you. And you chose power over me. Not only that, you took away my freedom. You told me once that your power meant more to you than I did. You were right, and I was wrong. I should have believed you then, and saved us both a lot of heartache._

Belle shook her head gently. This wasn't like her. This was pain speaking aloud, unrestrained.

 _I know that you will have no magic now, and that you will feel vulnerable without it. But perhaps this way you will finally have an opportunity to really change, for the better. Perhaps I'm giving you your best chance. The dagger was your mistress, but it won't be anymore. I was your wife, but I can't be anymore. I can't let you hurt any more people. I'm sorry. Belle'_

"No"

She threw the letter away from her: breath catching painfully as her chest heaved dryly, "No, I—I didn't mean it. I was angry Rumple, I was upset and I didn't know what to do"

Turning to face him, Belle scanned his haggard expression, her eyes earnest and fierce, "And you will _never_ have to read or hear those words. Because I'll never say them again. Because I . . . I love you, Rumplestiltskin. I always have and I . . . I always will"

Belle took a deep, trembling breath. All of her rawness from that moment—all of her unbridled fury and grief—had been poured into the ink of that tear-stained letter. And now she'd cast it away from her. Let go of the pain at last. Done the brave thing without even thinking about it. _I don't need it anymore. And we have so much more to worry about._

Despite the sharpness of the night air, she finally felt warm again. Giddy, almost. _What we have has_ never _been easy. But . . . I won't stop fighting for us. I can't change the past but . . . but_ we _can change our future._

As the distant thunder of traffic grew less frequent Belle's pulsating heartbeat slowed, and she could breathe calmly once more. _I—I believe in us again, Rumple. Now I just need to wake you so that you can too._

 _ **So . . . tired.**_

Rumple closed his eyes, leaning his head forward slightly, his chin dropping against his chest. Hesitantly, Belle hovered her cheek above his shoulder, pretending that she could feel the warmth and sturdiness of his skin through the suit. Drawing on memories of a time when their touches had been real—had been tender. _We have so much still to work through, Rumple; the gauntlet, the 'happy ending' you and Isaac wrote, everything you suffered out here, but—but we can do it together. Husband and wife. I won't leave you alone again. And as long as I'm alive, that witch will never touch you again._

 _ **I can't . . . sleep here. The Dark One doesn't sleep . . . on a . . .**_

Despite the new energy surging through his veins, Rumple's breathing was growing ragged, as his face quivered and twitched. The air around them grew dimmer.

 _ **. . . on . . . a . . .**_

The darkness closed in as Rumple drifted into sleep, and once again Belle was unable to move—to think clearly or even to breathe freely. Pitch black nothingness, with a suffocating lack of orientation. One by one, sounds arose from all around, buffeting them. People, calling out. Men, women, children. She struggled, unable to comprehend the tangle of voices. Derisive, desperate, despairing, they spiralled upwards. And fell like hail.

 _ **I can stay here . . . By letting go of the thing that is holding me back. You. Ah, that's no one. It's just my husband. I would have chosen you! If only you'd asked. I'm not going with you. You see, I have a wedding to go to—my own. I just wanted you. I wanted to be chosen.**_

Belle felt the vacuum press in as she fought to think with clarity. _Was that—was that m—_

 _ **Can't I be free of you? Because I**_ **never** _ **loved you. We're safer without you. Goodbye, Papa. I want you to find the one person in this universe who might still love you. Now there's only a beast. Rumplestiltskin, I command you . . . to leave Storybrooke.**_

Somewhere in Rumple's mind, a young boy was laughing.

 _ **After all, being abandoned is what you're good at, isn't it?**_

Belle twisted away, and the voices around her shifted, clinging to her like spider-webs, becoming distant yet strangely closer.

"It's a school night, kiddo. We've got to get you home"

"Wait—Gramps, look! She's waking up . . ."

* * *

 **A.N. A long chapter, and a pretty tough one for Belle, but it's always darkest just before the dawn!** **Thanks so much for reading and for the feedback so far—it's hugely appreciated. Any guesses what's first on Belle's to-do list, now she's awake?**

 **For reference, I do intend to keep writing this story even as, with Season 5 starting today, it inevitably veers further off Canon.**

 **The next section is 'The Prince and the Beast', in which we visit the Dark Castle—a place not often considered charming.** **Would love to know what you thought if you have time to review - thanks again!**


	6. The Prince and the Beast - 1 of 4

**The Prince and the Beast - 1 of 4**

"No!"

Belle gasped awake, her mind reeling as her body jolted into motion. Something fell from her shoulders, a cold object in her palm began to slip from her grasp, and warm hands grabbed at her elbow.

"Belle? Belle!"

Heart lurching, instinct took over and she pulled away from the arms gripping her just in time to catch the little teacup by its handle, inches from the floor. Grey-brown powder dusted her shoes and the hospital linoleum. _No, no. I have to go back._

Her vision was blurred, her throat raw, but the words echoed in her mind. _Abandoned. Abandoned._ Heart pounding frantically, she grabbed the small glass bottle from the bedside table and peppered the cup. She could hear two voices, could feel the solid clasp of fingers at her shoulder, but she pulled away fiercely, disorientated—they only made this world more real, and the realm she wanted wasn't palpable. _I have to help him, I have to see . . ._

"Belle, what are you—?"

"No, wait, don't—"

But she'd already enclosed the chipped cup in one hand, and brought her other palm down carefully onto Rumplestiltskin's arm. Breathing ragged, she waited for the ground to fall away. For the darkness to come.

A moment passed, and something in her whimpered. _It's not working._

"Belle . . ."

Her eyes narrowed in confusion, and despite her attempts to push away the tangibility of her surroundings, her vision cleared a little. "I don't understand," she murmured hoarsely, "Why isn't it working? Why can't I—"

"Belle. Belle, look at me"

She felt a hand hold her firmly on either arm, and something moved into her line of vision, blocking out the bright hospital lighting. Blinking hard, she could make out a male face, eyes boring into her own. Golden brown hair, a chiselled chin, concern etched on his features. The Prince.

"I have to help," she mumbled, still struggling slightly against his grip, her panic rising, "He . . . he—"

"It's OK," David replied, his voice steady and firm, "Whatever you saw, wherever you were, you're safe now." He studied her anxious expression, reaching for words that would comfort her from any horrors she'd witnessed. Henry had awoken in a similar state—had seen the Dark One slaughtering soldiers. "He can't hurt you here"

Brow furrowing in confusion, she looked across at him, "Can't h-hurt me?" she stuttered, "No, no, he's not the one who . . ."

But her attention was caught suddenly by her husband's form, and she took a deep, shuddering breath as the rest of the memories crawled slowly back into her mind. _The town line. Neal's apartment—a, a heart attack, and . . ._

"I uh," she breathed, shaking her head as she struggled for coherency, "I saw something . . . something truly terrible and I . . . I think we're in danger"

Across the room, Henry stared at the young woman—his step-grandmother—with an uncomfortable twist of dread. _Did she see a Seer too?_

The prince's eyes widened and he nodded slightly, trying to remain outwardly calm. But his heart clenched in trepidation, and he braced himself for the worst; a new curse was coming, or Emma was being hurt by the darkness, and he was going to fail her again, fail Neal—

Belle's cerulean eyes shimmered with fear as she whispered the words.

"Zelena is _alive_ "

For a long moment, everything was still. The monitors and screens around them continued to hum and beep, Rumplestiltskin's chest still rose and fell weakly, but David had frozen, looking at her with a strange expression.

"I know," she muttered, "I know it's a—a shock . . ."

The brunette cast a glance at her immobile husband, and her heart wrenched to see him amid the thin blue blankets once more. It felt like only moments since she'd watched him writhe in a different hospital bed, at the mercy of a witch, and been utterly powerless to intervene.

At last David jerked into motion. He cleared his throat and, to her bewilderment, withdrew his wallet from a back pocket, "Henry?"

The boy stepped forward and Belle started slightly. She hadn't even noticed that he was in the room.

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you go grab Belle a bottle of water and something to eat from the vending machines?" he handed his grandson some change, his voice measured and low, "Remember how hungry you were last night?"

"Sure," Henry said slowly, casting a worried look at his grandmother as he left the room.

Belle glanced at his retreating back, before eyeing the prince-turned-sheriff, "Did you uh, did you hear what I said?" _Perhaps he's in shock._ _I know I was._ With a deep breath she tried again, shaking her head sadly, "The witch is back, David"

"We know," he replied suddenly and she drew away a little, gazing at him in confusion, "We've known for about a week now"

"What?" it came out almost as a laugh, but there was no humour in the question, "How . . . how long have I been in the memories for?"

The prince's steady tone faltered slightly as he leant back and crossed his arms, "Emma and Regina—they went to New York to rescue Robin and Roland from her last week, as soon as they found out that Marian was not who she claimed to be"

The librarian stared at him in silence, bewilderment in her gaze. _They . . . they knew she was alive? Before the apprentice—before Rumple's heart . . ._

"Belle," David's blue eyes met hers solemnly, "Gold and Zelena were working _together_ "

"No, they weren't. Not freely—he would never want—Zelena killed _Neal_ ," she stammered, incredulous. _How could they believe that Rumple would willingly work with her? Just like that?_ Her mind raced. _And they knew. They knew for a week that the witch was alive and in contact with him. Over a week_. "Wh-why didn't you tell me?" Belle spluttered, "What reason could you—could you possibly have for not wanting me to know?"

Silence. David looked uncomfortable and her heart began to sink. Before he could gather the right words she'd already guessed the answer.

"It wasn't that you didn't want to tell me . . . was it?" she asked quietly, "It's that you didn't think to"

"We . . ." the sheriff hesitated, scratching the back of his head apprehensively. With every word of this conversation he was feeling less and less like Prince Charming, and all the more like David Nolan. Weak, unable to commit to an argument, always saying the wrong thing and never quite getting it right when it mattered. They hadn't particularly intended to keep Zelena's presence from Belle, but she was right—they hadn't thought to tell her either. Not for the first time, King George's derisive predictions rose up to bait him, _"You're not a prince, you never were . . . I knew you'd slip up shepherd, it was only a matter of time"._ He clenched and unclenched his jaw, pushing away the words of a man who was not, and who never had been, his father. _You're wrong. I can lead._

For a moment Belle felt as if she was back in Avonlea. Back in her father's castle, where her books, her outspokenness and her desires for independence had earned her curious stares and whispers behind her back. Peculiar girl, they called her. A beauty, the gossips murmured, but altogether rather odd. And here she was in Storybrooke where, once again, she didn't quite fit in. The wife of the Dark One.

Even now, even with the darkness gone, the association lingered. No matter how much she played the hero, or even babysat for them, she still wasn't part of the crowd. Belle drew a deep breath. _Different I may be, but I'll be damned if I let that witch come near my husband again. And I won't compromise my identity just to join the club._

"You don't need to worry, Belle," David said steadily, attempting to mend the conversation, "We have her safely locked away"

"She's _here_?" the breath caught in the back of her throat as the brunette stood up in alarm. She heard Henry step back into the room, saw him reach out in her peripheral vision, but she didn't take the water bottle he offered, regardless of how raw her throat felt. _He didn't tell me either._

Catching sight of the boy's confused expression as he lowered the bottle, Belle felt a flicker of guilt. _But then, he's the only one who told me anything._ She turned back to David, trying to speak clearly: to smother her distress and stay calm, "Zelena—"

" _There's just the small matter of collateral . . . And I know exactly who I want to pick—should you fail"_

As the witch's gleeful voice rolled over her, Belle stalled. She tried again, swallowing hard, "Zelena is at the Sheriff's station?"

"Not the station," he corrected with a gentle shrug of his broad shoulders, trying to diffuse the situation with a little humour, "Regina herself admitted that her sister is as mad as the March Hare and, having met him, I guess she'd be the one to know"

He crossed his arms once more, leaning slightly against the hospital bed, "We're safe. Zelena has a padded cell, Pan's bracelet and a few dozen protection spells between her and Storybrooke," he gave her a reassuring smile, "Regina locked her away in the madhouse, and we have _nothing_ to fear"

Belle flinched, as if she'd been slapped.

Henry shifted uneasily beside him, and after a moment David realised what he'd said. He groaned internally and raised a hand to his mouth. _Oh God. The asylum._

"Belle, I didn't think—"

"No," she interrupted, her eyes fierce, "You didn't"

David blinked as she gave him a piercing, soul-searching gaze, surprised by how vulnerable a look from the petite brunette made him feel. _Is she looking at Prince Charming, or David Nolan?_ His stomach twisted uneasily at the thought. _Is this just the lack of sleep—the worry for Emma? Or have I been away from home so long that my cursed self is taking over?_

To his discomfort, David couldn't remember the last time he and Belle had actually had a real conversation together, beyond the pleasantries exchanged when she'd babysat Neal a few weeks back. _"Aren't we family now?"_ he'd asked. Heck, he'd even suggested that she and Gold might be providing his son with a playmate soon. When Belle finally glanced away, David couldn't shake the feeling that she'd been searching for something, and found him lacking.

Henry's dark brown eyes combed over her hesitantly. The librarian looked, and felt, exhausted. _The witch is here._ She shook her head. _I—I need time to think._ Stepping forward to speak, Belle felt something soft under her heel, and glanced down to find a hospital blanket beneath her chair. She gave it a quizzical stare, her eyes tired.

"We put it over you," Henry said quietly, "You looked cold"

Visibly fighting to compose herself, Belle glanced away from them both, "I uh, I appreciate you watching over me, but now . . ." Her hand had somehow found Rumple's, this time without the instinctive, feverish desire to return to the memories—his nightmares—her words, ". . . now I need to be alone. With my husband"

"Of course," David moved away, resting his hands on Henry's shoulders, "Come on kiddo"

They were almost out of sight when Belle called out suddenly. Her question was quiet, but it carried a force of its own.

"Emma and Regina . . . why did they bring Zelena back to Storybrooke?"

With his back to her, David closed his eyes briefly. Not for the first time that evening, the prince wished he had Snow by his side. She always was better at doing the talking. Though admittedly there was little that could be done to make his next words any more palatable.

He turned slowly, to find a pair of piercing blue eyes watching him.

"She's pregnant"

* * *

The floorboards creaked as he padded over to their bed, his heart heavy.

"She had a point though. We should have made an effort to let her know what was going on," with a sigh he shrugged off his jacket, "But you know what this place is like. News spreads like wildfire, and the less people who know about Zelena, the better." He sat down on the edge of the mattress, tugging off his socks, "The last thing we need is an angry mob fetching their torches, or flashlights—or whatever it is that angry mobs prefer these days. It took enough effort just to stop Leroy from bursting into Granny's yelling 'terrible news' when he found out . . ."

David sighed, rubbing his temples and trying to figure out if the nagging in his mind was guilt or the start of a headache. _Both, probably. At least Neal's asleep._

"And I know, I know," he mumbled, peeling off his shirt and climbing under the covers, "if we wanted to keep the Wicked Witch under wraps we probably shouldn't have let Regina escort her to the hospital in broad daylight," he chuckled lightly, "But ever since the Snow Queen's drama the amount of pedestrians in Storybrooke just ambling around has dwindled somewhat—or was it the Chernabog?"

He looked over at his wife, who was curled up under the duvet, facing the wall.

". . . Snow?"

Raising his head slightly, David discovered that, for the first time since their daughter had disappeared into the vortex, his wife was sleeping peacefully. He began to mentally berate himself for talking aloud, albeit quietly, until he noticed the little box of tablets on the bedside table. _Huh. So once again the Evil Queen puts Snow White under a sleeping spell. But this time with the power of modern medicine and conveniently packaged pharmaceuticals._

He lay back with a sigh, continuing the conversation in his own head. _It's not like we've even seen Belle that much anyway . . . I guess she's been busy with the alcoholically-inclined jailbird._ He listened to his wife's deep, even breathing and snorted as he recalled the story of her pardoning the boozy book-thief. But as the minutes ticked by David couldn't stop his mind from running back over the scene at the hospital—Belle's reaction when he'd explained that Robin and Zelena were unexpectedly expecting a child. That particular calamity was hardly going to affect her, at least not directly, and yet she'd seemed utterly distraught.

He rolled over, his conscience prickling. Henry had been oddly quiet on the walk back to the loft, too. Perhaps he was still peeved that he had to return to school tomorrow and his teacher didn't. Snow had been adamant on that one. _He'd talk to me, though, if something were troubling him. Wouldn't he?_

As the former shepherd stared restlessly into the darkness, he subconsciously raised a palm to the air, cradling the space in front him. It never took long for his thoughts to return to Emma: to his daughter so frequently lost and found. Seven days now. Seven whole days and nights since she'd disappeared. He only wished that he could reach out to wherever she was this easily, to comfort her, and cup her head protectively—shielding her from the world. He'd certainly failed to do that for the first twenty-eight years of her life, but it was _supposed_ to be different these days. _We're a family now—she shouldn't have to go through any of this alone._

A distortion of his own words echoed back to him, _"Aren't we family now?"_

And a certain penetrating azure gaze flashed in his mind's eye as the guilt returned, a little heavier. He let his hand drop. _I'm not the only one who knew—she's Regina's sister after all._ Regina, Robin, Hook, Snow. Plenty of people could have taken the time to talk to Belle—not that the librarian often seemed to converse with any of them. Nevertheless, as David waited for sleep, he resolved to visit the library first thing in the morning. He'd bring her a coffee, apologise again, and get back to the most important thing of all—finding his daughter.

* * *

The librarian pushed the squeaking trolley over to a table, and began unloading her newly selected resources, thumbing through to the indexes to note down the most relevant pages. Belle didn't look all that different—her chestnut curls were pulled back into a soft ponytail rather than tumbling over her shoulders—but something about her was firmer, more resolved. She'd stayed at the hospital until the early hours of the morning. Partly to hold Rumple's hand and revel in just how real and warm the contact was, but also to work through the disorientation, despair and eventual determination that walking within her husband's memories had given her. There was so much to think about—so much she needed to do—and every time she allowed herself to dwell on one thought, a thousand others begged for her attention.

But through it all, her heart swelled in her chest. _I love him._ The certainty of that feeling kept her warm when she crept back into the unheated library, as the sky turned grey and the dawn chorus began. Her mind might have been reeling, but her body at least felt rested from its inactivity, and so she began her search without pause for sleep. Foolish perhaps, but people always did crazy things when they were in love—or so the stories said. As the brunette piled the texts in stacks according to their relevancy, her thoughts returned to a revelation which, each time she reconsidered it, didn't become any less astounding. _I saw what Rumple experienced after I banished him. And I . . . I also know what happened next._

Belle bit her lip. After being forced across the town line, Rumplestiltskin had been gone for weeks; she may have only seen the first two days, but she sincerely doubted that the rest of his journey was a pleasant one. _Yet despite everything—despite being exiled without his cane, without money, without a trial—when he came back he was the one to apologise to me._ The young woman clutched a book to her chest, remembering. _And he prioritised returning my heart, even while his own was dying._

She leant her head back against a shelf, closing her eyes as she relived the feeling of regaining her emotions, her freedom and her very ability to love.

 _"I'm going to return this to you, Belle, but he's the one who's going to protect it. Because I have proven unworthy . . . Goodbye Belle"_

She hugged the book harder. _And he let me go._ The edges of the dusty tome pressed hard into her skin. _Twice._

 _"There's a whole world out there, Belle, for you. Go with Will"_

The brunette swallowed hard. _How many True Loves would do that? Love someone enough to set them free?_ She shook her head lightly, almost disbelieving. _Give their blessing, even? Would Prince Charming do that for Snow White, had a Huntsman made her smile?_

Belle blinked and pulled out her phone. No new messages. Early as it was, she'd tried to ring Will throughout most of the morning, and eventually resigned herself to having to wait until later for that particular talk. A small knot of guilt twisted in her chest, but she knew it was the right thing to do. _I didn't even think about him once while I was in the memories, did I?_ She racked her brain. _Surely that speaks volumes._

The librarian sighed and pushed herself away from the shelf. _Rumple may not have wanted me to discover what he suffered out there, but I do know now, and—_

"Hey Belle"

The brunette jumped, and nearly dropped the tome she was holding.

"Henry . . . I uh, I didn't see you there"

The boy gave her an apologetic half-smile, "Robin's been teaching me and Roland about tracking in the forest. I guess it works on people too"

"Uh, yeah," Belle set the book down on the table, and turned to face him, a sinking feeling in her stomach, "I guess so . . ." She wasn't really sure she was up to a big, cheerful reunion with the Charming family just yet.

Apparently it showed. "I'm not here to talk about Zelena," Henry promised immediately.

"Right," Belle breathed, resigning herself to the conversation. But the boy didn't continue. He looked different from normal: self-conscious, almost nervous. "So—so what did you . . . ?" she prompted, and he raised his eyes to meet hers, digging his hands deeper into his coat pockets.

"I actually . . . I just wanted to er, to let you know that you're not . . . alone . . ." he trailed off, annoyed at himself for how lame that sounded. Belle was looking at him in confusion and he forced himself to barrel ahead, "In feeling alone, that is." He took a deep breath, "I've grown up in a town where, even after time started moving again, I was still the odd one out. I was the weird kid obsessed with a fairytale book—I got put in therapy even before that, and I was called crazy by uh . . . by a lot of people," he looked at her carefully, "Sometimes, I even thought they might be right"

That hit Belle hard. Imprisoned in the Evil Queen's tower, she'd counted the weeks; marking their passage on the walls of her cell in chalk, and reassuring herself that one day, if she fought hard enough, she would find her True Love again. But after the curse . . . for 28 years she'd resided in a mental asylum, locked away without any clear memories of either world—a blank slate, as perhaps Rumple was now. With no human conversation, every day like the one before, and with no way to count the time passing—her body never aging—she'd retreated into vacancy. Into madness, of a sort.

Then, after losing her memories at the town line, her attempts to discuss strange recollections of being healed and of seeing a ball of fire were answered with tranquilisers. _Even Ruby allowed me to think I was going mad . . ._ Henry was still speaking, and she shook herself, listening with rapt attention.

"And after the curse broke, I was the Evil Queen's kid; everyone in my school, and their parents, were afraid of her, and I guess they were kind of afraid of me too"

 _The Dark One's wife. The Evil Queen's kid._

"And even though I'd helped to break the curse, unlike everyone else in my class I didn't get this whole other identity—I didn't know them from . . . from before." He looked away, suddenly a little embarrassed. _I still don't really have any friends my own age, but I'm not going to say_ that _out loud. It's probably obvious enough anyway, given how many adults I hang out with._

Belle's gaze was empathetic, and she smiled at him sadly. Besides Rumple and her father, she could count the number of Storybrooke residents that she'd known in the Enchanted Forest on one hand: Robin, Dreamy, Regina, Hook. She'd saved one's life, spoken to another in a tavern twice, been imprisoned by the next and punched unconscious by the last. Not exactly lasting or healthy relationships.

Henry sighed, "And you may think that the others don't tell _you_ anything, but try living with them and still being kept out of all the plans," he scowled slightly, "I'm not a kid anymore, and I'm not just here to get in trouble and be rescued."

Belle was shaking her head at him in wonder, and his expression softened slowly into a sheepish smile, "So yeah, I just wanted to say that you're not alone, and you're not strange for believing in books—if I hadn't, we'd probably still all be cursed," he shrugged his shoulders. "I know what it's like to be different, and it's not always a bad thing. I started off alone and now I have more family then I know what to do with. That includes you and Grandpa Gold," he grinned, "No offence"

Belle looked at him, utterly blown away, "Henry, I . . ."

She abandoned coherency and laughed; couldn't resist giving the gangly young teenager a quick hug, as words formed thick in her throat, " _Thank you_ "

"No problem," he ducked his head, and stepped back to peer over at one of the books lying open on the table. Belle followed his gaze to the watercolour illustration of a short, impish man with his foot stuck into the ground. She already knew the inscription. _'In anger Rumpelstiltskin plunged his foot so deep into the earth that his whole leg went in; and then in a rage he pulled at his left leg so hard with both hands that he tore himself in two.'_ Glancing at the distant sadness gathering in her eyes, Henry seemed to read her mind.

"Don't worry, Belle—look, they've even spelt his name wrong. And Grandpa Gold's never going to just rip himself in half. That may be the ending to this story, but it's not the ending to his"

"Actually," she began quietly, "I think he's been doing that for a long time—tearing himself in two." She closed the book with a sigh, "When I first entered his memories, I uh, I could hear his thoughts, but there was . . . there was another voice there too. It said all these—all these horrible things"

"The Dark One," Henry confirmed, "I heard it as well, after he killed Zoso with the dagger." His heart twisted in sudden realisation, "Which means that my Mom . . . she'll hear it too now. It'll be in her head"

" _Kill them all. Protect the boy"_

He shuddered as he recalled the alternating mania and callousness of the voice. _And now_ I'm _that boy. The son of the Dark One._ He clenched his fists. _But history won't repeat itself. I won't let it. She won't abandon me and I . . . I won't give up on her._

Belle's voice seemed far away, but he forced himself back to the present, "I guess I spent so long trying to convince myself that the monster within the man was gone, I forgot that Rumple was still under a curse—still had the darkness whispering in his ear, every day"

"So," Henry looked at her with a new blaze of determination, "you're still on for Operation Dart-Frog?"

"Of course," Belle affirmed warmly. _I abandoned Rumple once. Never again._ "But . . . now we have a new problem. You couldn't get back into the memories, and neither could I. After you and David left, I tried to use other objects and none of them—not even Rumple's wedding ring—worked. Which means—"

"That our next challenge is recruitment," Henry finished with a wry smile, looking so like his paternal grandfather that Belle couldn't help but stare, "I know. I was talking about it with Mom. She suggested we make a sign-up sheet, stick it in the city hall, and wait for signatures." The librarian blinked at him, and he decided to clarify, "She was being sarcastic. Grandpa Gold's not exactly the most popular guy in town"

"Oh. Right," Belle shook her head at his flippancy, amused, "Yeah he uh, he does tend to foster rather . . . complicated relationships"

"And I already asked Mom. She said she can't do it because she's the Mayor and one of our last practitioners of magic," he shrugged, "Something about it being irresponsible to make herself unavailable for a dubious amount of time"

Belle tried not to look too relieved that Regina didn't want to go memory-walking. The last time she'd tried to work with the former Evil Queen she'd had her heart ripped out, all too literally. But her relief didn't last long; something told her that they were going to encounter a steady stream of excuses, if not downright refusals, when seeking help for the formidable Mr. Gold.

Henry seemed to be thinking along the same lines, "Maybe—maybe we should focus on investigating the pen for now. After all, none of this will help if we can't record the memories like Astrid said"

The librarian nodded, "I've already started writing out what I saw; I don't think I've forgotten much but—oh! Something hit me in New York. An idea. In the memories, that is," she clapped her hands together, "We should ask Isaac. After all, who better to ask about a magic quill than the former Author?"

" _Brilliant_ ," Henry beamed, "We'll go after school and—"

With a slow creak the door to the library opened.

"Anybody home?"

They peered around the bookshelves to see Charming edging in, two takeaway cups from _Granny's_ in his hands.

"Belle?" he called out, "I know it's a bit early but I—" he stopped short, staring at his grandson. "Henry. What are you doing here? You said you were heading to the stables"

"And I am," the boy answered, retrieving his rucksack, "I just had to make a detour." He flashed a smile at Belle, who returned it sincerely, "Don't worry Gramps—it's not even 7:15 yet. I won't be late for school, and Miss Muffet always takes forever to get round to the register anyway"

"Hmm. Well, just see that those stalls are spotless," Charming reprimanded him half-heartedly.

"I will," Henry promised, and waved a hand at Belle, "See you later"

"Bye Henry," she murmured, watching through the window as he fetched his bike and disappeared, before returning her attention to the chiselled blonde sheriff.

Realising that he was standing somewhat awkwardly a few steps into the library, David covered the rest of the distance and handed her a cup, "Belle, I just wanted to apologise. Again. For yesterday," he cleared his throat, "We should have told you. It's just, with everything that's been happening, and after Emma—"

"It's OK, David," she cut in, to his surprise and evident relief, "I uh, I understand"

"You do?"

The beverage warmed her hands, and she smiled slightly, "Something reminded me that . . . well, that everyone's different," she fixed him with a steady look, "and you've had a lot on your mind"

 _Compared to Regina—to Robin, even—there's not so much I can fault him for, really. And I'd take well-meaning heroes over witches any day. No wonder Rumple was so desperate to reclaim his dagger when he returned, even if he had to take a pirate's form to do it. If Zelena had found it, and he'd lost his ability to love . . ._

Feeling cold again, she took a sip and nearly spat it out, grimacing at the bitter taste.

David blinked, "What's wrong?"

"It's uh, a nice gesture," Belle turned away, trying not to cough, and abandoned the drink on the reception desk, "But I don't drink coffee. I've always been more of a tea kind of girl"

"Oh. Right," the prince didn't return her consolatory smile. _How long have I known Belle for now? And I didn't know that._

They stood together in a mildly uncomfortable silence, until she offered him a seat. He declined, but he didn't leave either.

"So," she began, attempting to fill the quiet, ". . . how's the search in the Apprentice's house going?"

"Oh, well nothing yet, but you know us. We're optimistic. Snow's over there now," he cleared his throat, "And how . . . how was your time in Gold's memories?"

She almost gave him the automatic response normally involved in exchanging small talk, but something made her hesitate.

"Actually, it was . . . awful. And astounding, and so eye-opening and scarring that I felt completely lost when I woke up," she said frankly. David stared at her in surprise, and she bit her lip, thinking. _He thought I'd seen Rumple hurting someone, when I awoke. I guess it's not always obvious that the villains can feel pain just as keenly as the heroes. Maybe . . . maybe I can lead him to a different answer—lead him away from that assumption._

"David, do you uh, do you remember what it felt like to be under the spell of Shattered Sight? To see the worst in everybody around you? To turn on those you love?"

Alone in the shop, with magical barriers in place, Belle had been spared conflict with others at least. But looking into that mirror had given her more than a taste of the Snow Queen's incantation. And if Charming could relate to that, maybe she could help him relate to Rumple.

"Of course," he breathed, "It was terrible—and not just because Snow remembered about the stroller's warrantee afterwards," he added, trying to make light of the memory. But it had been an appalling situation—unable to feel the impact of True Love; only experiencing disgust and hatred when he looked at those he cared about: the overwhelming urge to do or say anything to hurt them. And the absolute certainty that they despised him too, in equal measure. "If Ingrid hadn't absorbed the spell, I could—I _would_ have torn Snow apart, or died trying," he admitted.

Belle took a deep breath, "And that—all those horrible feelings—are what, I think, Rumple was experiencing every day as the Dark One." Her voice was quiet, but David watched her intently, no doubt relating Rumplestiltskin's experiences immediately back to what Emma might now be suffering. "But as well as seeing the worst in others—even more than that, perhaps—the curse was also making him see the worst in himself; drawing upon his—his fears and his desires somehow, turning his own thoughts against him." She sighed softly as his expression grew pained, "It _laughed_ at him, David"

The prince swallowed hard. _Not my daughter. I won't let it do that to Emma._

A moment passed, and then he asked the question she both didn't expect, and had fervently hoped for.

"This memory-walking business . . . do you need any volunteers?"

Belle smiled at him, and her husband's disparaging words rose in the back of her mind.

" _Heroes make the best puppets."_

She exhaled softly.

 _They can make pretty good friends, too, Rumple._

* * *

He put a loving hand on her shoulder, and Snow turned to face him, Neal in her arms, "So I guess those sleeping tablets worked out pretty well?"

She snorted softly, "It was a nice experiment but, with a baby to look after, it would only make me groggier if he woke up. As soon as our little prince begins his midnight shrieking—"

"I'll be right there to hush him," Charming interjected, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead, "I promise"

"You?" Snow teased, "You sleep like a rock"

"Only because a beautiful woman once hit me in the head with one," he countered. _At least according to Emma and Hook's version of our story._ Making his way over to examine a pile of newly rejected artifacts, David tried to suppress a sigh. _For a revered Sorcerer, Merlin really doesn't have all that much in the way of tracking or portal-opening. Unfortunately for us._ Setting down an empty ink-pot, he looked back at his wife.

"Snow . . . I agreed to do something"

Her eyes narrowed immediately, "And I'm guessing from your tone that the request wasn't to take Pongo for a walk"

She always did get right to the heart of things.

"Henry and Belle—neither of them have been able to get back into Gold's memories, and so I sort of . . . volunteered," he shrugged sheepishly.

"David," Snow breathed, her gaze crestfallen, but firm, " _No_ "

"I'll only be gone for a day or so. Probably. They're not really sure yet, but Ruby's agreed to step in as Sheriff to cover my patrol—Belle wanted her help finding something anyway, and—"

"David," she repeated, her voice low so as not to disturb Neal, but full of meaning, "I _really_ don't think that's a good idea"

He stepped forward, placing warm hands on her arms reassuringly, "It's not for long, and then we can get back to ransacking this place," he smiled, "But I might be able to learn something about Emma's curse from—I don't know—seeing things from Gold's point of view"

"And that is _exactly_ what I'm worried about," Snow replied, her eyes wide and tone heated. Her husband watched as she took a deep breath, "It is _not_ Emma's curse. It's Rumplestiltskin's. And all he has ever done is lie, and manipulate, and puppeteer every single person in this town. If it weren't for him, we wouldn't have lost our daughter"

"If it weren't for him, we probably wouldn't have met, and there would be no daughter to lose" Charming replied, and her gaze softened a little, her eyes reddening, "You're right—Gold is more exploitative and even downright foul than all the other villains we've faced put together. But what would be the harm in learning more about a curse that Emma now possesses? It's for her. Not for him"

His arms wrapped around her and their child, and they melted together a little. But, muffled against his chest, Snow's voice was hoarse, "If you think this is the right thing to do, then I guess it's what you shall do. But I _refuse_ to believe that the answers to restoring our daughter's goodness lie within the mind of a monster," she pulled away and looked him straight in the eye, Neal squirming in her arms.

"You know what the apprentice told Henry and Hook," she whispered, as their child began to cry softly, "The sorcerer is the _only_ one with the power to destroy the darkness once and for all. And that is what we need to do: destroy the darkness, not embrace it"

* * *

There were goose-bumps on his arms, which is why David put the coat over him, but when Whale wandered in and raised an eyebrow at Gold's new covering, the prince regretted it a little.

"What?" he asked defensively as the doctor left the room, "It's draughty in here"

As he waited for Belle, Charming stared at the older man thoughtfully. Henry's other grandpa certainly looked more grandfatherly, but he couldn't imagine Rumplestiltskin giving Henry a piggy-back ride or teaching him to sword-fight. _I've seen you as a pawnbroker and an imp, Gold, and heard stories about you being the Dark One for more years than I can remember. What more could there be to know?_

His gaze drifted to the vial of powder sitting on the side. _At least this netherworld reportedly involves less fire._

Footsteps echoed in the hospital ward, and Belle appeared in the doorway.

"Thanks for doing this, David," she murmured, making her way to her husband's bed. Leaning over Rumple, she brushed a loving hand through his hair.

The prince watched, surprised to find himself thinking of Snow, and the gentle caresses between them. "You still care for him?" he couldn't help but ask, "Even after everything he's done?"

She gave him a sad smile and an answer that sounded half like a secret and half like a proclamation, "He's my True Love"

David's brows furrowed, uncertain. He'd seen glimpses of their relationship; even been a kind of 'wing-man' for Gold on occasion—bizarre as _that_ experience was—but . . . True Love? Most people lived their whole lives without finding their fated soulmate. To have experienced the purest and most potent form of magic was a rare occurrence, and a pretty big claim.

He shook his head. _And why would the imp have needed a hair from Snow and me, to bottle True Love, if he had a home-grown supply?_

"But you . . . banished him," he returned, unable to think of a way to phrase that particular brand of break-up delicately.

"Yes," Belle sighed softly, "I did." She swallowed and looked away, "Because I followed a gauntlet to _his_ True Love. To his greatest weakness and to the thing he loved most: his dagger, his power. It's a—it's a bit of a painful story, but I uh . . . I'm not ready to give up on him. And I don't think I ever will be"

 _And now, with the darkness gone . . . maybe we stand a chance._

"People _can_ change," David mused, "Hell, in the Enchanted Forest I never imagined that Snow and I would one day be inviting the Evil Queen round for dinner"

Belle changed the subject abruptly, her eyes swimming with difficult memories, "That coat . . . is it the uh, the object which connects you and Rumple?"

"Not really," he answered with a smile, "this is." He plucked a small tuft of hair from his head, and carefully coated it in the memory dust. The librarian observed with interest as, facing the comatose former Dark One, Prince Charming took a deep breath.

"Well, here goes nothing," he murmured.

Belle watched as the prince's hand, clenching the strands of hair, made contact with Rumple's arm. Watched as he slumped slowly forward, his eyes automatically falling closed as he was propelled deep within a netherworld.

 _And now,_ the librarian thought to herself, _with our Sheriff asleep, I have just one more task before I do it._

 _Before I visit the witch._

* * *

A brief sensation of falling, and then, with a solid _thunk_ , Charming landed heavily on the ground. Blinking his eyes open slowly, he found himself sprawled over a dusty black and white checkered floor. To his right, he could see the legs of a large wooden table.

 _Where . . . where am I?_

Winded, he fought not to cough, and struggled to sit up a little. Close ahead were a crowd of people facing away from him—nobles, he guessed, from their footwear. Mostly leather boots, thick and studded, but among them one pair of golden heels.

A familiar high-pitched voice giggled behind him.

"Well, that was a bit of a let-down"

 _What? How did he—_

The boots in front of him all turned abruptly, as their owners swiveled around to face the speaker. Charming pushed himself groggily to his feet, but froze half-way when he found a pair of piercing blue eyes staring straight through him.

 _. . . Belle._

* * *

 **A.N.** **Well, Prince Charming is now in for quite the ride. Any guesses which Rumbelle moments he might witness, and what he might make of it all? This chapter was rather more mind than action based—would be wonderful to know if it came across OK, if you get the chance to review.**

 **Thanks so much for the kind and thought-provoking feedback—guest responses are hugely appreciated too, and I'm only sorry I can't PM to say thanks. I'm off to the US in a few days, but will try to get the next section out while I'm away. Thanks again!**

 **[Update]: Apologies for the delay in the next chapter; have been away and currently stuck on a bit of writer's block. I want to get the upcoming chapter right, so please bear with me: it's in progress. Thanks so much for the very kind reviews!**


	7. The Prince and the Beast - 2 of 4

**The Prince and the Beast – Part 2 of 4**

* * *

 _Parts of this section use dialogue from the full uncut script of the episode 'Skin Deep'._

 _With many thanks to the incredible Robin4, who kindly helped this chapter to get out from under the shadow of writer's block._

* * *

Before David had time to think, the threatening sound of a sword being drawn echoed in the crumbling stone hall. Its metallic ring jolted the prince instinctively into action, and he swirled around—only to find that the wielder of the weapon faced away from him.

 _ **I wouldn't try that, dearie.**_

"You sent me a message," Rumplestiltskin announced, and David stared at him in confusion, trying to consolidate the words he'd heard with the movement of the imp's lips. Ahead of him a young, dark-haired man advanced, his sword angled toward the intruder's throat.

The Dark One—glimmering greyish-green scales and all—was lounging fearlessly in a large ornate chair, playing with a wooden carving of some sort. Raising his hand in a mockingly bland impersonation of his audience, he continued, "Something about, um, 'Help, help! We're dying! Can you save us?'"

 _ **It lacked originality.**_

"Rumplestil—" Charming began, but the words died in his throat, for, to his bewilderment, a large, well-dressed man passed straight through him, fur-lined red robes skimming the floor. The prince started in surprise at the strange sensation. _It's like the fire dreams—as Henry said. Just like when Snow and I tried to kiss._

 _ **But full points for effort.**_

"Well the answer is . . ."

David snapped his head back up, in time to see the leather-clad imp impatiently swat away the knight's blade, "Yes. I can."

 _ **You were right before, dearie. Ogres are not men.**_

Something in the imp's twisted mind was laughing darkly. _I can hear his thoughts_ , Charming realised with an uncomfortable lurch, recalling Belle's warnings. He glanced apprehensively at the future librarian—she did look different here, albeit only slightly. More innocent.

 _ **But then again, neither am I.**_

A small object flew through the air. Having carelessly tossed the wooden carving—a castle figurine from the strategy table, David belatedly noted—to a startled guard, Rumplestiltskin proceeded to ooze around the room, exuding his usual disconcerting self-assurance.

"So, you've got ogres," the Dark One exclaimed in a rougher imitation of a country-born peasant's accent, before giving a casual shrug, his voice returning to its higher nasal pitch, "It happens."

Reaching the head of the table, he picked up a large blue volume from atop the maps and flipped it open. David tried rapidly to drink in the debilitated room, and he saw Belle half-start forward from the corner of his eye. It didn't take a genius to figure out who the book belonged to, and the prince glanced at her. "You watched me enter this netherworld Belle," he murmured hazily, "I didn't expect your past self to supervise me too."

The imp eyed the tome's cover, and didn't bother to conceal a snort.

' _ **Her Handsome Hero'. Not quite so dashing**_ **after** _ **the ogres.**_

"They're fun in adventure stories," he drawled as he slammed the book shut, "but in real life they pull your legs off."

 _ **Heroes and ogres both.**_

His sharp titter made several guards flinch back, but Belle stepped forward, her eyes dancing with hope and . . . David's brow furrowed. _Curiosity?_

"You've faced them?" she asked, and the imp looked up at her, as if noticing her presence for the first time, "In battle?"

He raised a nonchalant brow, looking her over.

 _ **Well she's brave, I'll give her that.**_

David cleared his throat. _They don't know each other? This is . . . this is how they meet?_ He shifted his weight. _In a war-room?_

Intrigued, the Dark One eyed her, "Oh, I might have been in the Ogres War."

 _ **If you count stopping it single-handedly.**_

He returned the book to the table and continued to pace, addressing the hall at large, "Yes, I can protect your little town." The imp pointed at the red-robed man, and Charming realised with a jolt that he recognised another face in the room. "For a price."

 _ **All magic has one. And stopping a war—preventing so much pain—requires an equally painful sacrifice.**_

Moe—Maurice to this realm—started forward, "We sent you a promise of gold."

Rumplestiltskin's eyes strayed briefly to the young woman dressed all in gold before him, and David followed his gaze with a growing sense of unease, "Ah . . . No. You see, um . . ." he drew it out, letting them wait, ". . . I, uh, _make_ gold."

 _ **Make them suffer**_ a voice whispered, and the prince couldn't tell for a moment where it had come from.

Staring up into Maurice's impassive expression, the Dark One crooned, "What I want is something a bit more . . . _special_." He continued with a callous smile, "My price . . ."

 _ **Take her. Let the gold become rags.**_

Charming looked between them. The words echoing in his mind sounded a little different, a little deeper than Gold's, though they certainly had his infamous sardonic bite. _Perhaps—_

The imp pointed a finger, his own tone dropping lower: ". . . is her."

If Belle felt horror at the revelation—if she was repulsed to find the Dark One's eyes fixed upon her—she masked it with impressive haste as her father spluttered in protest, "My—no—my daughter is not . . . a commodity."

 _ **But she is what you treasure.**_

"A deal?"David stared at the imp incredulously: frustration at his own spectral form mounting. "You got Belle to be with you in a _deal_?"

He flexed his fingers, wishing he could feel the weight of a sword. _Even for the Dark One, that's low._ The prince shook his head and, despite knowing that his words wouldn't be heard, his voice grew low and threatening, "Does she know now—in Storybrooke? Did you take her memories?"

Rumplestiltskin treated the nobleman to a slow, cruel smile as the deeper voice coiled in his mind, "Which is exactly why I want her."

 _ **Make her scrub the flagstones . . .**_

Maurice barely moved, "No . . ."

"The young lady is engaged," the broad-shouldered knight declared flatly, as he threw a possessive arm across Belle, his elbow barging into her throat, "To me."

 _ **My, and what a lucky young lady she is**_ , the Dark One's own mind drawled, dripping with sarcasm.

Passing him, the imp choked back a giggle as his voice pitched higher, "I wasn't asking if she was engaged." He pressed his hands to his chest contemptuously, "I'm not looking for ' _love_ '."

David snorted. _Tell that to Gold._

 _ **. . . until her knuckles crack and bleed.**_

Spinning around, Rumplestiltskin faced the silent room, "I'm looking for a caretaker . . . for my _rather large_ estate," he smirked nastily.

The prince grimaced and fought to repress a shudder, "Gold . . ."

 _ **Let them chew on that.**_

Turning to Maurice, the Dark One's voice grew soft and dangerous, "It's her, or no deal."

The noble shook his head slowly, "No. I'm sorry, but I cannot."

David eyed the future flower-peddler. _Is that regret in his voice?_ He didn't know much of the man in Storybrooke, beyond the fact that he was willing to send his daughter across the town line to end her association with Gold.

The prince crossed his arms. _Much as I disliked Hook initially, I would never have tried to do that to Emma._

"You're going to lose her either way," the Dark One taunted, his voice low and menacing, "To me. Or to the ogres."

 _ **And pulling the legs off my own caretaker would be a touch counter-productive, no?**_

Maurice glowered, not bothering to mask his disgust, "With the ogres I know what I'm facing. We have a chance—"

"No you don't," Rumplestiltskin sang merrily, and the man's patience snapped.

"Get out," he roared, "Leave!"

The imp's reply was quiet as he walked slowly to the door, "As you wish."

Hesitant, Charming began to follow him, trying to recall the rules of this realm. _I've got to follow Gold, haven't I? Or something will happen . . . and not something good._ His memories of Storybrooke felt increasingly vague—or perhaps he hadn't paid enough heed to the librarian's words. As he drew level with Gold, the prince caught sight of the knowing leer on the imp's scaled face.

 _ **If that was your final answer, the smoke from my exit would have dissipated by now, dearies.**_

As if right on cue, Belle called out.

"No, wait."

Smirking, Rumplestiltskin turned to face them once more. David watched as, pulling free of her fiancé, Belle stepped slowly up to her future-husband, and looked him right in the eye, unflinching.

 _ **Bold girl.**_

A moment passed.

"I will go with him," she nodded, her voice firm.

The imp clapped his hands and released an almost childish giggle which, David found, still had the ability to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

"I forbid it!" the dark-haired young man boomed.

Maurice's response was almost inaudible, a desolate murmur. "No . . ."

Belle span to face the room, her eyes flashing with a fierceness that Charming immediately recognised, perhaps for having felt it so recently himself.

"No one decides my fate but me." Rumplestiltskin watched her fearless announcement with interest, "I shall go."

 _ **Brave is good, where you're headed.**_

"It's forever, dearie," he warned, steepling his fingers.

Bright blue eyes met his own reptilian gaze.

"My family, my friends—they will all live?"

 _ **And more intelligent than most. Terms and conditions apply.**_

The Dark One inclined his head, his gold-flecked eyes gleaming, "You have my word."

Belle nodded firmly, and Charming watched her resilience with a sudden flash of respect. If the stories were anything to go by, very few people had ever dealt so deftly with the Dark One, particularly when their own life hung in the balance. _The Dark One._

 _My daughter._ The delayed association came with an uncomfortable lurch, and he corrected himself almost immediately. _No. Emma won't have her name on the dagger long enough for calling her that to feel natural. Besides, she won't be like this, will she?_ Serpentine and scheming.

"No," he murmured, speaking aloud to reassure himself, "My daughter doesn't have scales, she wouldn't—"

"Then, you have mine," the imp's eyes widened slightly as Belle spoke, and Charming had to force his attention away from the present, and back to the past, "I will go with you—forever."

"Deal!" he squeaked, practically skipping with an unnerving, warped form of delight, " _Nyah_!"

 _ **The price is paid.**_

Her father launched into protest, drawing her gaze from the strange mesh of monster and man before her, "Belle. Belle, you cannot do this," Maurice intoned as she turned to comfort him. "Belle, please. You can't go with this . . . _beast_ ," he glared, and Rumplestiltskin patted a hand to his heart, feigning offense.

Turning to the noble and the knight, Belle's voice was steady, "Father. Gaston. It's been decided."

 _ **And so the high-born becomes the help.**_

David looked between them uneasily.

"You know—she's right," the imp gloated, pointing at the young woman, "The deal is _struck_." Almost as an afterthought, he tittered, "Oh! Congratulations on your little war."

 _ **Fools.**_

David followed as the imp ushered her out, watching him place a hand near the small of her back with discomfort. Glancing back, he could guess what the crowd of stunned onlookers were thinking. Their lips were clamped shut, but the accusation in their eyes was loud enough:

 _Monster._

* * *

"Hey—Belle, slow down. I might be a part-time quadruped but right now I only have two feet and both of them are rocking killer heels."

The librarian turned back with a rueful smile, "Sorry Ruby. I guess my mind's just racing still and my body feels obliged to keep up."

Leaves and woodland debris crunched underfoot as the waitress made her way down a slope, the road and the sheriff's car disappearing from sight.

Ruby glanced at her friend's conflicted expression, and sighed softly. "I'm sorry, Belle," she murmured again, brushing back a lock of her dark hair, newly streaked with red highlights, "About before; what I said at the station—it was probably a bit full on, and you were so happy . . ."

"No," Belle returned after a moment, "You uh, you were right to bring me back down to earth. Being in Rumple's mind I just—well, I guess I assumed that because my own feelings felt so . . . so true, again, that his would be the same."

"Hey," Ruby put a comforting arm around her friend's shoulders, and they continued down the forest path together, "Henry said he was some peasant before, right? For all you know, when Mr. Gold wakes up all Dark One-less, he'll never even have to think about choosing power over you again, 'cause magic won't even be an option." She'd intended to sound reassuring, but the librarian just winced slightly. The trees grew thicker, and after a moment they parted to walk in single file.

 _I shouldn't have said anything,_ the waitress thought with regret, _especially not just before she went to Gold's bedside._ She watched the tail of Belle's scarf shift in the breeze, irritated at her own interference. _I'm pretty sure wolves are_ supposed _to have good timing._

When the librarian had come bounding into the Sheriff's office that morning, Ruby had been startled to find her previously heart-broken friend acting as if she'd fallen book over boots in love that very day. She hadn't exactly _wanted_ to burst the petite brunette's bubble, but she did want to protect her. And quoting back Belle's own words about Gold always choosing power certainly sobered her up. As did mentioning the gauntlet: an object which seemed to have been crawling through her mind for weeks. She'd headed off to meet David at the hospital with her optimism severely checked. _A pinch of salt, fresh from Granny's diner_ , Ruby thought with a grimace.

But friends—real friends—were meant to be honest. _I've watched her get pumped full of drugs because I thought ignorance would keep her safe. Keep Storybrooke safe. And I was wrong to do that._

She shivered, recalling how the nurse had pinned Belle down and tranquilised her, just moments after the librarian had begged for honesty. _"Were we really friends?" "Yeah, we were." "Then tell me the truth."_

The waitress sighed softly, fingers brushing the sheriff's badge attached to her belt as she scanned their surroundings. She could smell rabbits, and instinct told her that their warren was nearby, but she pushed away the influx of information from her heightened senses to concentrate on her human thoughts. _I did the right thing this time._

After Belle had banished Mr. Gold and locked herself away for a week, Ruby had been one of the few people there to help pick up the pieces. Just small things; making her syrup-smothered pancakes at the diner in a none-too-subtle bid to remind her to eat, dropping by the library to ask for book recommendations when, with the shifts Granny was throwing her way, she knew it would just mean another paperback lying unread on her bedroom floor. She'd even suggested a few times that they hit up _The Rabbit Hole_ for a girl's night out, though each time Belle would decline, blushing and muttering something about 'Panama'.

 _I've seen her cry because of that man more times than I can count, I just didn't want it to happen again_ , she justified _._ Though perhaps bringing up that damned gauntlet hadn't been the right way to go about talking sense into her book-loving friend. It was probably at the bottom of the ocean by now anyway.

"Belle?" she called out softly, her sharp eyes picking out the increasingly familiar patterns of the trees, "Where is it that we're going?" This track reminded her of Henry somehow, of Regina and Gold. Of the burn of magic.

The shorter brunette turned to smile sadly at her, "To a place where lost things are restored."

* * *

David was not used to teleportation, and apparently neither was Belle.

With the crowd gulping fearfully and staring at their backs—or at least at the two backs they could see—the trio had left the war room and walked through the castle's deserted hallways. The building was clearly in a dramatic state of disrepair; indeed, it looked almost as if the floors had become waterlogged, and only recently dried out. As they'd passed a large room with broken bookshelves and blackened walls, Belle had initially looked away, blinking hard. But at the final moment she'd turned her head and murmured something.

Charming would not have caught the words if they hadn't echoed in the Dark One's own mind, and even then the prince hadn't understood the meaning.

 _ **Vale et matrem.**_

In the ensuing silence David had allowed himself to outpace them slightly. _At least Gold took his hand off her back as soon as we left the sight of the crowd_ , he'd mused uneasily, struggling to read either of their expressions _._ He may have seen the librarian and the pawnbroker interact tenderly in Storybrooke, but at that point he never would have guessed that Mr. Gold had actually _bought_ his lover—now his wife. Traded for her.

As they'd descended the stone steps, a flock of startled sparrows had taken flight into the early evening air. The imp had giggled and made some quip about griffins, but soon enough he was pointing a black fingernail at Belle and telling her to stay still. The image of a desolate estate flashed in his mind. "Wait!" David started as a cloud of thick smoke enveloped the pair, "Gold! Don't—"

But his panic was short-lived. Moments later, the prince was standing beside the imp and the noblewoman, arms raised, at the foot of the Dark Castle. Clearing his throat, he lowered his hands sheepishly. _Well, I guess I'm not going to get left behind_ that _way, at least._

"Where . . . where are we?" Belle breathed. She had barely a second to take in the mountainous landscape covered in drifts of snow; the towering walls, a glimpse of stone gargoyles and dried flower beds, before the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

 _ **Hell.**_

"Home," Rumplestiltskin smirked, as David looked back at the winding, solitary path leading away from the estate. A path he'd taken up here on multiple occasions. Numerous quests.

But the imp was already pacing into a large, damp entrance hall—the same one in which the baffled prince had bargained away his cloak more than thirty years ago. As the Dark One gestured impatiently for his latest acquisition to follow, David forced himself to focus and keep pace with the future librarian. Which, it turned out, didn't require much effort.

Barely inside the hall, Belle was standing still, staring at the heavy locks barricading a number of doors. With a mocking bow, Rumplestiltskin flourished his hand. A set of double doors swung open. He strode ahead into the Dining Hall, increasingly piqued by the girl's dawdling.

 _ **I may be immortal, but I don't have all day, dearie.**_

David blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. _Have I been in here before?_

Trotting to catch up, the young woman tried hard to drink in the shadowy room. It was filled with glass cases and pedestals—with countless curious objects on display, yet it was impossible to look at everything at once, and her eyes roamed frantically. The imp barely glanced at her.

 _ **Nosy, nosy. But not for long.**_

A scattering of sparse candles cast strange shadows on the walls, and the former shepherd felt his skin prickle. They passed a dining table with one chair at its head, and another turned toward the fireplace. Noticing a spinning wheel in the corner of the room, Charming realised with an uncomfortable jolt that he had indeed been in this hall before. And not too long ago.

 _Gold was there._ He stared at the wheel. _In a cage. A captive in his own castle, as Belle is now._

"Uh, where . . . where are you taking me?"

"Let's call it . . . your room," Rumplestiltskin pointed a scaled finger toward her, and to her credit the girl didn't seem to be quivering in terror as much as he'd expected.

 _ **I can fix that.**_

 _Does that mean that the Vault of the Dark One is around here somewhere? Has this always been the Dark One's dwelling? Did Emma . . . would Emma come here?_

As they reached the dungeons David cast a concerned glance at Belle, but she didn't seem to share his suspicions; didn't seem to expect the sight of a cold, inky prison—even when the door swung open moments later, with a gleeful gesture from her captor. She stared in shock at the dank cell and he tapped his fingertips together, watching.

 _ **Not such a fairytale now, is it?**_

"My _room_?"

"Well, it sounds a lot nicer than dungeon," the imp returned with a dark smile, before shoving her inside. Slamming the heavy wooden door shut, he turned the lock, a manic giggle escaping his lips as he began to stride away.

 _ **A week in the dark should help dampen her spirits.**_

"You can't just leave me in here!" a thumping echoed behind them, "Hello? Hello?"

The cell had magical barriers of its own, but Rumplestiltskin made a mental note to put up more complex wards when he returned; spells which could detect her intentions, and perhaps an enchanted clasp, should she ever make it outside. Just for good measure.

 _ **She'll run, when it is done.**_

Charming followed the imp with a disapproving frown, as Belle's desperate pleas grew quieter.

 _ **Or rather, she'll try.**_

 _They end up together,_ he tried to remind himself, disconcerted as he was by the transaction required for their relationship. _This . . . this is the beginning of a romance._ He sighed. _And it's off to a pretty rocky start. Though I guess this is the guy who bought duct tape and rope on Valentine's Day._

"I sure as hell hope this memory is rated PG," he muttered with a shudder, and looked up to find Rumplestiltskin standing still, the large dining hall empty and silent before him. Belle's cries lingered distantly in the air.

 _ **To make them suffer.**_

"Gold?" he drew level with the leather-clad imp, and tried to decipher his expression.

 _ **Not to fill the silence.**_

The Dark One's eyes lit on the heavy curtains obscuring a window, and he strode over, pulling the fabric aside to stare out at the red-tinged sky. David watched as he raised a blackened fingertip to brush against the window pane. He joined the imp warily, and looked out at the scarlet-streaked expanse.

"Ogres," the prince's eyes narrowed in understanding as he murmured the word. _That must be the fire from the battlefields._

 _ **That's the blood of children.**_

". . . What?"

Something about the sorcerer seemed to falter slightly, but as Prince Charming shifted to look at him, Rumplestiltskin was already turning away. Within minutes he'd unlocked another room, and was waving a hand over a pile of wooden spools, concentrating on envisioning a new shape.

 _ **Gold it may be . . .**_

The glimmering thread around them shifted into coins; the imp's mind barbing at the intellectual capabilities of ogre-kind all the while.

 _ **. . . but if it doesn't look like a coin those brutes will likely eat it.**_

Leaning against the doorway—which he'd passed through several times before adjusting his mindset as Henry had mentioned—David watched the imp gather the heavy coins into a brown leather pouch. No matter how many he scooped in, the unassuming little bag never seemed to become full. There was something strange in the Dark One's eyes as he stood, tucking the pouch away.

 _ **If only it had been this easy before.**_

Charming opened his mouth, not even sure what he wanted to ask, but before he could utter a word Rumplestiltskin was already teleporting—the brief flash of an image, an idea, reeling through his and thus the prince's mind. A damp, marshy field, the smell of burning. The sound of screaming.

And then there they were, wisps of smoke coiling about the imp's ankles. David tried to catch his breath, still unused to the sudden jolt—to the fraction of a second in which it felt as if his body had no place in the world. But the Dark One was already pacing ahead, muttering incantations without feeling the usual pull of energy from his body: the price for this excursion had already been paid, and was no-doubt weeping in her cell. David lurched forward to stride beside his shorter companion, who seemed to be following the sound of a guttural grunting. He froze when he rounded the trees.

Seeing one ogre was a fearsome enough sight—the towering muscular body, the milky eyes and stomach-churning stench. But here— _Hell, there must be fifty of them, in this clearing alone._

 _ **That sniveling bean-procurer might have failed at his task.**_

Charming flexed his fingers. _I don't need a sword._ He clenched his jaw, steeled himself, and walked forward to join Rumplestiltskin, who had conjured a cloak and was pulling the hood up as he approached. _I'm a ghost here, trying to fight would be beyond futile._

 _ **But knowing his verminous voice has its uses.**_

A gigantic makeshift tent had been erected at the end of the copse—huge, billowing sheets stretched out between the pine trees, still barely high enough to allow the ogres within to stand straight. Strips of tree-bark were lashed to their arms as amour, and human bones dangled from their leather loincloths, clinking softly in the breeze.

 _ **And a rat is just what I need.**_

As the Dark One passed through the camp the grunting ceased, and an eerie silence followed. One by one, the huge creatures turned to follow Rumplestiltskin's passage with blank eyes. Charming stared back at them cautiously. "Gold, I may be a phantom here, but you're not," his words were cautious, "What are you doing?"

He turned his attention to the imp's boots, which seemed not to make a sound against the damp grass. _A sound-proofing spell?_ _But . . . ogres can still sense magic?_

"Harth," Rumplestiltskin drawled, as he entered the tent, "You're looking well."

Inexplicably, the Dark One's voice sounded different, and not because he was sardonically imitating a rural peasant. His tone seemed several pitches lower, and rolled effortlessly over a different dialect—the drawl became more of a simper. The ogre he addressed glowered back toward him. Unlike the others he wore a full set of clothes, his thin grey hair slicked back by the rain.

 _ **And you've yet to pledge allegiance to Regina. The two**_ **may** _ **be connected.**_

Emerging from the shadows of the tent, Harth stepped boldly up to the imp, his heavy movements causing the earth to shudder beneath his feet. His voice was low and rasping, "Who are you, magic human?"

 _Ogres can . . . talk?_

Charming realised his mouth was open, and closed it. _No._ He shook his head, glancing around the tent. _It must—it must be simply within the Dark One's powers to understand them._ Surely he and Snow couldn't have ruled together, and defended their kingdom, without knowing that their old enemies were capable of conversation?

 _ **Your worst nightmare.**_

Overturned churns of milk were scattered across a crude attempt at a table, accompanied by a half-eaten dish of charred flesh. Which particular variety of flesh, David had no desire to discover. His eyes flicked back to the future pawnbroker.

"I am b-but a humble m-messenger," the imp bowed, allowing his voice to stammer and wheedle, "come to warn you." As he straightened, he let a scaled hand brush very deliberately over the leather pouch beneath his cloak. The chink of coins was quiet, but it was enough.

"Speak your warning, human."

Rumplestiltskin smiled darkly under his hood, though he sculpted his words to sound fearful, stripped of any humour, "They say that _he_ is back."

His warning had an immediate effect. Although it was delivered softly, murmurs sprang up in response even from far across the camp. _Well, they do hunt by sound alone._ Charming shifted uncertainly, and watched as Harth's bludgeoned features drew together in a mixture of fear and distrust. _I guess eavesdropping is second nature to ogres._

 _ **And this time he's had a**_ **tad** _ **longer to hone his abilities.**_

"No." The force of the word and the ogre's gravelly tone made David flinch, as if he'd walked into a wall of granite, "He has not interfered with us. Many years it has been."

"Many years it may be," Rumplestiltskin returned, "but do not forget the warnings of your ancestors. Centuries can pass, but the _Dark One_ lives on." He spoke softly over the outbreak of alarmed grunts and distressed bellows above him, "Ogre-Slayer, war-ender, demon, Dark One—call him what you will, rumour has it that he's out for blood again. Yours." His eyes narrowed viciously under the hood, watching the panic spread among the lumbering creatures. The folklore in their culture had made it clear.

 _ **Ogres were not always blind.**_

"My warning is simple," his words were both soft and hard at the same time, "Fall _back_."

Monosyllabic grunts were eventually replaced by muttered recollections of the stories, and Charming watched the increasingly superstitious exchanges between the restless ogres with a strange mixture of disgust and awe, catching errant phrases.

" . . . lore says . . . most savage of humans . . . his terrible eyes . . . last thing elders saw . . ."

 _These are brutal, barbaric creatures,_ David tried to remind himself, unsettled by their fear. The prince was not a short man, but even he barely surpassed the nearest ogre's knee in height. Their mere stench was enough to make him recoil, let alone the endless tales of how they could tear a person limb from limb. Staring into the milky blankness of their gaze, he recalled the cautioning words oft shared by humans—shared in a disconcertingly similar fashion to how the creatures themselves talked now. _"Legend says that when someone is killed by an ogre, the last thing they see is themselves dying in the reflection of the beast's eye_. _"_ _Now though . . ._

He released a breath that he hadn't been aware he was holding. _The Dark One is a story used to frighten young ogres into good behaviour._ Such an idea was . . . well, it was suddenly so much more astounding now that the Dark One was his daughter. _And a story told to humans and ogres both._ Physically, he might be invulnerable here, but the weight of the concept made him shudder.

 _Emma is the monster under their bed._ He felt his fists clench, knuckles cracking as he flexed his fingers.

 _ **Pawns again.**_

Charming had barely noticed that he'd tuned out of the imp's thoughts, let alone the continuing conversation. As Rumplestiltskin continued to ply the creatures with partially-veiled threats, implied omniscience and persuasion of a more tangible kind—namely in the form of heavy metal coins—the prince gazed at him with a strange, and growing, sense of déjà vu.

"You . . . you're going to do this again, Gold." Even with his heart in the possession of the Evil Queen—the tyrannical Snow White to whom he was considered a pale imitation of his brother James—Charming had maintained some autonomy over his ears. He'd heard the stories of their realm's saviour in Isaac's alternate world. Ogre-Slayer. Light One. Hero. Rumplestiltskin the knight. _He's fought ogres in every realm,_ the prince realised. _Even if more recently it was only some warped fantasy of his and Isaac's, it would have felt real enough._

 _ **Rather large pieces, but still pawns nonetheless.**_

Rumplestiltskin was watching the ogres with something akin to regret, and David frowned at the rings of mushrooms sprouting up amid the grass where milk churns had been set. _But he did do it here, for real. And it wasn't considered heroic._ The rasping arguments between the creatures were becoming louder. _Because he charged a price, or because he used words rather than a sword?_

Among the growing dissent, Harth spoke out fiercely, "Even in legend, Dark One did not come for years. Many bones were crunched. How do we know he now comes?" Others snarled in accord, and Rumplestiltskin leant a little heavier on his maimed ankle, the pain long-dulled by magic.

 _ **Many bones, indeed. But not all were crunched by ogres.**_

David was staring at Harth with a strange sense of unease, blue overalls and the smell of petrol at the back of his mind. The more the fearsome creature spoke, the less the sheriff was able to shake the feeling that they'd met before. But it was impossible. _Snow said the whole race was left behind, ravaging the Enchanted Forest after the curse broke in Storybrooke._

A taller ogre, whose face was patterned with scars, was already bellowing his own agreement, "This is truth. Is said many tender human children were harvested before war-ender came. We should feast on flesh still—" Deep roars of assent met this suggestion, drowning out the speaker's words, as several greedily voiced their desire to try plump child-meat. But something, somewhere, had snapped.

 _ **Kill them**_ **all**.

The sinister voice ricocheted through David's mind, and within seconds dark magic crackled around the imp. The air grew still. David shot the future pawnbroker a startled look, as the trees around the clearing began to creak and groan.

 _ **For Bae.**_

There was a change. It was almost imperceptible, but the sudden wilderness of magic was reined in. Not dismissed, but honed: given a target.

 _ **You, Harth—or rather a clump of your hair—may have a place in the future.**_

Rumplestiltskin raised a hand, and the scarred ogre suddenly stiffened, his foul breath escaping in stutters.

 _ **But the same cannot be said for your outspoken friend.**_

The huge creatures listened in horror as their tall companion began to twitch, clearly feeling the electric coursing of magic, even if they lacked the power of physical sight. The hooded Dark One slowly curled his fingers into his palm, and each time a blackened fingernail coiled, their comrade gave a sickening shudder. By the time that his hand had turned into a tightly clenched fist, the ogre was falling heavily to his knees, blood trickling from his nostrils.

 _ **All for my boy.**_

Rumplestiltskin stepped nonchalantly to the side as the gigantic creature toppled, and Charming stumbled backwards, forgetting for a moment his spectral form. There was a deafening _thump_ as the body hit the ground, and then an even louder silence.

"Well," the imp said finally, his higher, sing-song voice banishing the guise, "that was unnecessarily messy. _Must_ I warn you again?"

He took a step forward, and the ogres collectively flinched.

" _Fall back_."

It took only a matter of minutes for the Dark One to gain assurances that, regardless of the ogres' next move, Maurice and his entourage would remain unharmed. To seal that particular deal, he had casually upended the leather pouch over the scarred creature's corpse; gold coins rained down onto his bloodied chest. But it was greed, not grief, which glimmered in the blank eyes of his companions.

As the imp made his way back through the camp, it was clear that his whispers of darkness had done their work; already the ogres were arguing mutinously, and the vast majority were in favour of a full retreat.

And then, without so much as a final word, Rumplestiltskin disappeared, and Charming felt a strange tumbling as darkness closed in all around. Whatever was happening, it wasn't teleportation.

* * *

Together the two young women approached the wishing well, but Ruby held back as her friend stepped up to peer over the moss-covered edge, into the depths below.

The waitress bit her lip. It looked so much like the little well outside Granny's cottage, back home. And when she and Snow—or Mary rather, as she had called herself then—or Margaret, or Frosty, _whatever_ —had gone to draw water, they'd drawn blood instead. _The blood of the people I killed. People I knew._

As the librarian turned back from the stone octagon, the young werewolf forced herself to put aside the memories; she was here to help Belle face her demons, not to dredge up her own.

"So," Ruby forced a curious smile, "What is it that you've lost then? What are we here to look for?"

The librarian cleared her throat, her cerulean eyes full of ghosts, "My wedding ring."

She blinked in surprise. "You tossed it in?" the taller brunette braced herself and peered over the edge of the well, torn between being startled and impressed. She tried to ignore the strange relief which fluttered in her toned stomach. No blood, just an inky black.

"Perhaps I intended to," Belle gave her a sad smile, "But when I got here I just . . . I _couldn't_. So instead I uh, I buried it somewhere around here."

"And you don't remember where?" Ruby's gaze was shrewd but kind under her long eyelashes. It was unlike Belle to be vague or forgetful. The shorter woman's memories had been threatened so often that she held on to them with all she had. And what she had, little though people recognised it, was one of the sharpest minds in Storybrooke.

"I wasn't . . . well, I wasn't in my most lucid state to be honest. It was just the second night after . . . after I banished Rumple," she finished resolutely, and Ruby nodded.

The librarian had confided in her on the walk down to the well, outlining the heart-wrenching memories she'd witnessed: the terrible wonder of seeing through her husband's eyes. Ruby could guess easily enough where her thoughts had wandered. _Banishment was rough on both of them._

"Too much tea," the waitress guessed lightly, earning a weak smile.

After a moment, Belle continued bravely, "I thought maybe you'd be able to help me track it? I know it's been quite a while . . ."

 _Tracking normally involves a heartbeat or a scent, not a clump of silver six-foot deep._

"You do realise I'm part wolf, right?" the waitress quirked an eyebrow, "Not part metal-detector." But as the petite librarian's face fell, Ruby found herself clapping her palms together anyway, in a show of sudden determination, "Which means . . . we'd better get started all the sooner."

 _I might not be able to help much as a Child of the Moon in this instance, but I can still help as a friend._

She was rewarded by a grateful nod, "Right."

Soon both women were rummaging amid the earth, focusing on the bases of nearby trees, one of which Belle thought she must have used as a marker. The rain had long since washed away any trace of digging or footsteps. Fern leaves dipped and bowed in the wind as they searched.

"So why this place? Why not just the trashcan at Granny's?" she half-joked, trying to gauge Belle's mood. The earth felt good under her formerly-immaculate fingers, the nails painted in her signature scarlet shade, and she longed briefly to shift forms, to feel the crunch of pine needles as she ran. _Really_ ran.

The librarian's voice was muffled slightly by the breeze and her scarf, but having canine hearing negated the issue, "Actually, Rumple and I have a lot of memories here. This is uh, it's where I first remembered everything, remembered him. Where we first said we loved each other. Where we had our second kiss. Where he told me that magic is power . . ." Belle paused for a moment, careless of the damp dirt that tarnished her coat, "And he and I lost each other so many times and in so many ways, it seemed right for us to get married here . . . where the lost things are restored."

Ruby almost jibed at her friend for the lack of a wedding invite—this place must have looked beautiful in the candlelight, and she loved to tease—but stopped short when she heard Belle catch her breath.

Something glinted in the earth beneath the librarian's hands, nestled amid the roots. Ruby's sharp lupine eyes flicked over the tree which loomed above her startled friend. _Of course it would be this one_ , she thought wryly.

Amid all the normal trees surrounding the well, the chosen marker was actually made up of two trees conjoined. One half looked older and darker, all crooked and broken: the bark moss-encrusted and weathered. The second tree was mostly straight, but had leaned in slightly, and somehow wrapped its roots around its counterpart. They seemed to be growing together, both still alive, if a little . . . different. _Well, I know who they remind me of._ She shook her head at her foolish thoughts. _Is this the cynic in me, or the romantic?_

"It's here," Belle breathed, eagerly scooping up the wedding band and barely bothering to brush off the soil before she slid it onto her ring finger with a satisfied sigh.

After a long moment she turned around, to find Ruby perched on the ledge of the well, smiling at her.

"Thank you."

"Hey, you found it—I was just here for moral support, really." _And flair. That too._

"No, really, Ruby. Thank you."

The waitress nimbly descended from the well, helping Belle to her feet and linking arms with her, "C'mon, I've still got a few rounds of my patrol left, then we can follow true sheriff tradition and reward ourselves with a pastry each. I'm buying." _Well, technically Granny's buying, but that's beside the point._

"Actually," Belle bit her lip apologetically, "There's something else I wanted to ask you too. Another favour."

"You want me to dig for matching earrings?"

" _No_ ," the librarian smiled, nudging her playfully as they began to walk. "I was actually wondering—well, I know that he's not exactly your _friend_ , but I am. You're mine, I mean, and there aren't many people who would be willing . . ." she took a deep breath, trying not to ramble, "Would you consider going into Rumple's memories? After David, I mean."

"Me?" the waitress blinked at her.

Belle rushed to explain, "It's just, I can't go back, and I know that you wouldn't . . . wouldn't try to use whatever you saw against him. Walking someone else's memories, hearing their thoughts—I think it could make them very vulnerable." She glanced nervously at the taller brunette, "It wouldn't take that long, I think. Perhaps a day. But of course, I'd understand if . . ."

The librarian was visibly bracing herself for disappointment when Ruby laughed and clapped her on the arm, "Of course I'll do it, Belle. I'm just . . . surprised to be asked."

In response to the questioning tilt of her friend's head, the waitress shrugged, "Well, mostly I'm just asked to track things. Not that I mind," she added quickly, "but I don't tend to be brought along for the big things, you know? I thought you'd go to Snow next, or Regina." _Or anyone, really._

Belle shook her head, "You're my friend, Ruby. If I'm leading a—a quest, you'd always be top of the list."

Touched, the waitress blinked a little harder. "Well, I guess this means Granny can't say 'no' to my extra day-off now," she gave a decidedly wolfish grin, "She loves a good cause."

"And you'd be OK with going inside Rumple's mind?" the librarian was clearly trying not to sound too incredulous, "Helping him?"

"It can't all be bad in there. I've noticed the way he looks at you," she said softly, "And you should have seen the state he was in when you were whisked off to the mines—I'd never seen Mr. Gold actually _panic_ before. Like, full-on freak out. And he borrowed a picture from me once," she smiled, "Of you. Never did get it back."

Belle looked up at her, startled, "I—I've seen it. When did he . . .?"

"Around the same time you were using a pool cue to signal the bar for another drink."

Ruby almost stumbled at the firmer nudge that earned her, and the two friends continued up the hill.

* * *

The tumbling ended almost as soon as it began, and Prince Charming found himself in a long, dark hallway, miraculously still on his feet. From what Henry and Belle had said, landing gracefully was definitely _not_ one of the rules of memory-walking. Footsteps echoed to his right, and he turned just in time to see Rumplestiltskin striding through the dank corridor.

 _ **It should be long enough.**_

Heart still thudding at the sudden transition, David made to follow him. After a few paces he began to recognise their route. _The dungeons._ He glanced at the leather-clad sorcerer. _Have we changed memories?_

The imp seemed to be wearing the same set of clothes as before, or at least something similar. Maybe. The prince scratched the back of his head. It hadn't felt like they were teleporting, but then he wasn't exactly overly familiar with the sensation. _Magic and fashion: so not my fortes._ He had barely a moment to contemplate the question before it was brusquely answered.

 _ **A week in the damp and cold should have taught her to fear me at least.**_

David rolled his eyes at the imp's back as they descended the steps. "A word of warning, Gold," he mumbled mostly to himself, "From one husband to another. You're probably going to regret treating Belle as a prisoner." He shook his head knowingly, "If not in this world, then the next."

 _And I should know._

His and Snow's own relationship had gotten off to a rather dodgy start—notably when he'd failed to dodge the jewellery box she slammed into his chin. Admittedly though, however much she still teased him about it, their initial animosity had only ever been discussed lovingly since.

"But I didn't imprison her _."_ He rubbed the bristles on his chin thoughtfully as they walked. _Well, not properly._ "Nets don't count." _And with Prince Charles strolling out of the bushes, she was hardly up there for long._

 _ **Perhaps maids do not live on bread alone,**_ the imp's dark voice tittered in the quiet.

Flickering with candlelight, the dungeon hallway _did_ seem oddly silent, and the prince felt a sudden twinge of worry for they'd been down here before her startled cries had been echoing from the stones, loud and clear.

A giggle curled in the sorcerer's mind.

 _ **Good thing I gave her water.**_

Without warning the Dark One stopped short just before the cell door, and David crashed into him—or rather, he would have done, had his spectral form allowed it. Instead the prince stumbled straight through Rumplestiltskin and stepped, disorientated, to the side, grimacing at the strange sensation, "Oof. Gold, what're you—"

Standing stock still, the imp appeared to be listening attentively to something. And, after a moment, David heard it too. A small, soft voice was talking. Scaled brows furrowed. No-one should have been able to sneak through the magical barriers of the cell, much less converse with his captive.

With a sweeping wave the words became amplified, and a few disjointed phrases carried across to the imp, bouncing gently from the walls, "Knowing not that this was indeed the legendary sword . . . He tried once, to no avail. He tried a second . . ."

 _ **Who**_ **is** _ **she talking to?**_

Rumplestiltskin glowered at the heavy wooden door, perturbed. It didn't help that he could feel the cost of the spell already being extracted. His own throat was stinging a little, growing slightly inflamed.

". . . there arose from the people a great shout . . ."

 _ **Herself. Of course.**_

The Dark One pinched the bridge of his nose, heaving an exasperated sigh.

 _ **I leave her in a cell for seven nights, and she succumbs to madness? I knew having a maid never ended well.**_

With an impatient flick of his hand the door slammed open, the spell dissolved, and the young woman inside jumped. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and the rich golden fabric of her dress pooled onto the floor.

"Come come, dearie," he snapped, "It's time to attend to your duties. You didn't think I'd let you lay idle all day?"

He span around and started walking before she had the chance to answer, but Charming hesitated by the door. It felt a little callous to leave Belle trailing behind, even if she couldn't see him to appreciate the attempted chivalry. But then again, he probably wouldn't be able to see anything himself if Gold got too far ahead and his own senses shut down in response. Future-Belle had warned him against such dawdling for a reason. With a sigh and an apologetic glance at her past self, who was struggling to stand, David let his long strides eat up the space between himself and the imp.

 _ **Those soft hands won't be soft for long.**_

Charming glanced at Rumplestiltskin. _Well, he's noticed a . . . a feminine attribute. Maybe this won't take too long._

Within a few minutes they were down in the castle kitchens; Belle having just caught sight of her captor's dragon-skin coat-tails as he rounded each bend and barely managed to keep up. David glanced quickly at the room; large, made of stone, a generous fireplace and an assortment of ingredients hanging from the ceiling. Plus, no human heads, so better than he expected.

"Well now, dearie," the imp trilled, "Story time is over and servitude begins!"

Oblivious to the young woman's sudden blush, which accompanied his acknowledgement of eavesdropping, Rumplestiltskin gestured theatrically to a small stone alcove that housed a variety of colourful glass vials, in addition to mops and brooms.

"Here you will find all you need for your work." He gave her a sharp look, waving vaguely back toward the kitchen, "I trust you _do_ know how to boil water at the least, dearie?"

 _ **So many nobles don't.**_

"Belle."

"You'll fin—" the imp stopped and blinked at her, belatedly registering her answer. "What?"

The young brunette swallowed, evidently nervous, but her bright blue eyes flicked bravely up to his own reptilian gaze, "My name. It's Belle. I . . . I thought you mustn't know, as you keep calling me 'dearie'."

David smirked. There was more than just naivety there. _Is she testing him?_ For a moment the Dark One looked baffled, but then he took a step closer and the girl flinched.

 _ **That's more like it.**_

Rumplestiltskin clicked two clawed fingers together and a small spark of fire gathered between them. He waited just long enough for the brunette's eyes to widen in alarm, before flicking it at the fireplace.

"Make tea," he commanded nasally, "I'll explain the full extent of your duties in the Great Hall. _Dearie_." He leered nastily on the last word, and disappeared with a pop.

Charming lurched forward slightly, and found that whilst his foot rose from the stone flags of the kitchens, it clunked back down onto the wooden boards of the hall. He closed his eyes briefly. _Is teleporting ever not going to make me feel nauseous?_

 _ **A rash deal.**_

He turned to find the imp brooding in his lone chair at the head of the table. _Or at least as much as the flamboyant version of him_ can _brood,_ David thought dryly, casting a glance at the crimped hair and elaborate, form-fitting leather, which suddenly seemed so much more noticeable after thirty years with the sombrely attired Mr. Gold.

 _ **The whole purpose of a maid is to conserve magic.**_

Charming leant against the edge of the table, listening to the Dark One grumble to himself about not wasting energy on such trivial matters as cooking and cleaning, whilst he scanned the eclectic mix of objects dotted around the dimly-lit room. His gaze caught on a severed hand but, before he could stop to wonder if it belonged to a certain pirate, a soft female voice coiled in the imp's mind, the words frighteningly gentle. Biting.

 _ **You could always kill her. You've killed maids before, even when your precious boy was around to act self-righteous about it.**_

The imp scowled and twitched slightly, but before he could snark a response the sound of hesitant footsteps filled the hall. David didn't see Belle enter the large room: he was too busy staring at the greyish-green face of the future pawnbroker, the cogs whirring in his mind. _A woman?_ The deeper voice from before he could almost pass off as a colder distortion of the pawnbroker's. But this?

"Belle was right," he murmured, his heart growing heavy in his chest, "The darkness is in Gold's head. Other voices are—are _talking_ . . . And now it's in the mind of my daughter."

The female voice was whispering huskily, teasing and taunting.

 _ **She thinks you're a monster. Prove her right.**_

"You will serve me my meals, and you will clean the Dark Castle."

"I—I understand."

 _Would it . . . would they tell_ Emma _to kill?_

"You will dust my collection and launder my clothing."

 _But surely . . . surely she wouldn't listen . . ._

The gentle sound of tea trickling into a china cup failed to draw David from his reverie, merely tickling at the edge of his mind. He didn't turn to see how the hands holding the teapot trembled through the steam.

"Yes."

 _ **Make her fear you. Respect you.**_

"You will fetch me fresh straw when I'm spinning at the wheel."

A shaky breath. "Got it."

 _Will Gold's voice be among them? Would he—_

 _ **Test her.**_

"Oh!" Rumplestiltskin raised a finger to the air, as if struck by a sudden epiphany, "And you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts."

A soft exhale of breath; the gentle thump of a small object falling, the _clink_ of fractured china.

At the sound of something breaking David's gaze finally snapped back to the young woman who, it seemed, was frozen by fear— the air in the room suddenly still.

The imp sneered mockingly at her, but, deep within his scale-covered chest, his blackened heart wrenched, if only a little. Something inside his mind was laughing cruelly. Not at the clumsy girl: at him.

 _ **You know the stories well enough, Spindleshanks. Are you surprised that people believe them?**_

The mask didn't slip, and the darkness in him fed on the terror now emanating from the girl, "That one was a quip—not serious." A small giggle escaped his lips.

Belle suddenly seemed able to breathe once more, "Right."

The imp may well have been mistaken, but _perhaps_ the corner of the noblewoman's mouth quirked up in a small smile of her own.

David leant back, watching as she knelt with shaking hands to retrieve the cup. Almost immediately, he sat up a little taller. _Wait a minute—is that . . .?_

It was. The little white and blue teacup from the hospital. The item that connected the town librarian and the town terror.

 _ **Strange girl.**_

From the tone, it sounded more like a compliment than an insult.

Suddenly aware that he might be standing—quite literally—in the middle of a rather important moment for the two, David awkwardly hopped off the table and retreated to a tapestry cloaking the stone wall. Invisible he may be, but even ghosts could feel like a third wheel at the wrong moment.

Belle's fear had returned, and she held up the little teacup in quivering hands, "I'm, uh . . . I'm so sorry, but uh . . . it's . . . it's chipped."

She raised it higher, trying to turn the angle so that perhaps it would appear less broken, "Y _-_ You can hardly see it."

Rumplestiltskin stared down at her, and Charming raised his eyebrows. _You can definitely see it._

 _ **She's . . . afraid.**_

Several voices spoke at once within the Dark One's mind _—_ a cacophony of reactions, his own among them.

 _ **That's rather the point, spinner. She broke what's yours. Punish her. Yes, crush her impertinence beneath your heel. But she's . . . afraid.**_

A long moment passed.

"Well, it's just a cup."

The other voices in the imp's mind suddenly ceased their muttering, and all was quiet. Relieved, the girl rose, clearly attempting to gather her rather substantial courage, and Rumplestiltskin leant back. Gold-flecked eyes watched her _—_ within them a hint of puzzled amusement.

 _ **It matters not how brave the maiden.**_

He dropped his gaze.

 _ **The monster remains just that.**_

"You agree with your father, don't you?" he asked before he could stop himself. Just the smallest tinge of bitterness flavoured the words.

Distracted, Belle poured tea back into the same cup she'd just chipped, "Usually."

"You think I'm a _beast_." He had perhaps intended to spit the word as Maurice had done, but it came out softer than that. A gentle hiss.

As she carried the teacup over to his isolated chair, Belle raised her chin a little, toughening her voice, "No."

His words pitched higher, and the imp pointed a scaled finger, "I put you in a dungeon for the last week."

Returning to the tea-tray, the young woman gave him a frank look, "That was pretty beastly, yes, now that you mention it."

The Dark One's eyes widened. David snorted in laughter.

 _ **I . . .**_

Before the sorcerer could attempt to conjure a response _—_ and given that he seemed startled into speechlessness for once, perhaps the distraction was for the best _—_ a messenger dove fluttered into the room. It circled the hall before alighting on the imp's shoulder.

 _ **Good ah . . . good timing, Dove.**_

He removed the message tied to its leg, and nodded slightly as he read. The creature took off with a soft _thump_ of feathers.

 _ **The deal is complete. She . . . She stays.**_

Charming crossed his arms and smiled slightly, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he watched. He felt a small flower of hope blossoming in his chest. _If Gold could do it—could ignore the voices in his head and . . . and somehow win the girl, then we needn't fear for Emma. She's stronger than all of us, and she's certainly stronger than him._

The prince glanced across at the petite brunette, noticing to his surprise that Belle was eyeing the door.

"The ogres have fallen back," Rumplestiltskin murmured distractedly as she paced softly behind his chair, "Your father and your people have been spared."

 _ **It's futile, dearie.**_

Playing for time, the young woman responded quietly, "That is wonderful news. How did you do it?"

As the imp answered, she carefully unlocked the heavy wooden door and began edging out of it, "Ogres are superstitious and greedy. A few whispers, some gold . . ."

 _ **I kept my end of the bargain, and you shall keep yours.**_

Charming blinked as Belle disappeared from sight. _What does he—_

A movement to his left caught the prince's eye. He turned in time to see the future librarian flinch in surprise, as she found herself entering the very same room she'd just left, through the door on the opposite side.

All at once the claustrophobic whispering of voices returned to Rumplestiltskin's mind.

The Dark One glanced up, barely seeming to register her attempted departure, ". . . and the deal was done."

 _ **She will not escape. Surrounded by darkness, she'll become as scarred as we.**_

Prince Charming shivered at the coldness in his gaze.

"I see you've found some magical precautions I took. There is no escape."

The weight of his words hit Belle all at once, and something in her cerulean gaze crumbled.

 _ **You will sweep the ashes until you become them.**_

"You're going to spend the rest of your life here, _dearie_ ," he trilled, his voice high and mocking, alone in the only chair at his table. His reptilian eyes narrowed as a cruel, tight smile revealed blackened teeth.

"I hope you like my home."

* * *

Belle was fuming, there was no denying it, even as a small part of her mind argued that it made sense. But having built herself up, having finally worked up the nerve to descend those steps into the asylum which had held her for twenty-eight maddening years, she'd been faced not with the demons she chose to battle—but with a security door, a keypad, and the strict command of the nurse she'd pulled aside that she must first fetch the Mayor if she wished to enter. They'd allow no-one else in without explicit permission.

She tried not to dwell on the irony of being locked out of her former prison. Of course, keeping the witch shut away without easy public access was, most would argue, for the best. But what had finally pushed her into a shaking anger was the curt response Regina had given her phone-call, and now she had to wait until some council meeting or the other concluded before she could even _begin_ to discuss access to the asylum with the former Evil Queen. Who was, to top it off, possibly the last person she wanted as a chaperone.

 _I even thought of an opening line_.Belle closed her eyes in frustration, aware of how pathetic that would sound if she said it out loud. Even now she couldn't shake the memories of a seemingly sweet young midwife, new to Storybrooke and searching for a gift. _"You must be Mrs Gold." "No, I'm uh . . . not."_

A woman who had simpered and smiled at Belle, and watched her grieve, all the while keeping her True Love locked in a cage. She had _seen_ Rumple's utter horror in New York, been witness to his terrified helplessness when confronted with his former captor. _Whatever Zelena did to him . . ._ A sick feeling twisted in her gut.

 _It's Mrs Gold now._ Her blue eyes opened with a blaze of determination, immediately locking onto her so recently-rescued wedding ring—the itch of its absence finally ceased. Returning to Rumple's bedside on her way out had certainly helped to calm her a little. She was determined to use the waiting time well; to fulfil another promise to him, albeit a smaller one. His bedside table was still bare: she'd vowed to not let it remain that way. And Belle knew just the place to get fresh flowers.

 _I need to speak to Father anyway._ But, stepping out of the small room, she walked almost head-first into Doctor Whale, his clipboard thwacking into her chest, and springing back to hit his own. There was an uncomfortable pause.

Victor raised his hands, moving back to allow her to pass. "I wasn't trying anything, I promise," he joked half-heartedly, but she didn't miss the sidelong glance to her husband's bed.

 _Even when Rumple's in a coma, and potentially without magic, people still fear him?_ She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. _Maybe it'll keep the vengeful types away._

"It was uh, my fault as much as yours—the walls are glass, I should have been paying more attention. Sorry." Belle bit her lip. "And thanks for not holding a grudge against Rumple . . . for uh, before," she added, "You've been taking excellent care of him."

The librarian couldn't help flushing slightly, recalling how she'd watched in morbid fascination, perhaps even laughed, when Rumple had thrown Whale to the ground, and told the doctor to kiss his boot. Just for looking at her wrong. Admittedly, she had been Lacey at the time, but even in retrospect it hadn't been a gentle throw. _He did all that for me, even with Neal . . ._

Whale shrugged, "If I held any ill-will, I don't any more. Now I've seen the batterings he's taken, my own few bruises pale in comparison. I mean, I'm quite used to gruesome sights—admittedly I'm usually the one making the scars, bu—"

"Wait," Belle interrupted more sharply than she'd intended, "What do you mean? What . . . what batterings?"

The scientist-turned-doctor gave her a strange look, gesturing vaguely toward Mr. Gold. "Surely of all people, you'd have seen what those expensive suits cover?" But his confusion was beginning to match hers, as he grew less certain, "The old lacerations?"

 _Old lacerations?_ The phrase sounded oddly familiar, and Belle shivered, glancing back toward her husband. Something clicked when she saw him amid the hospital blankets, and her mouth fell open. _No. No, surely he wouldn't have . . ._

With just a few steps she was standing over him, heart pounding. _I thought he just looked thinner because of the coma._ Whale shifted his weight uncomfortably behind her, but she ignored him. Her hand reached out hesitantly to stroke Rumple's hair, and faltered. The gesture used to make him lean in, closing his eyes. But after the witch . . . whenever she'd reached up, he had flinched away, and then hated himself for doing so and apologised. And then flinched again. _I didn't see him change clothes, in the memories. Did the doctor in Manhattan mention scars or lacerations?_ She'd been so focused on the relief of him surviving the heart attack that the surrounding noise had seemed like a distant blur of monitors and medical lingo.

"Show me," she murmured softly, and the doctor hesitated, glancing at the slumped form of the sheriff. "We don't have to move him, just . . . just show me what you mean. _Please._ "

Whale reluctantly came forward, and pulled back the upper half of the sheets with a gentleness that surprised her. But when he reached to untie the strings of Rumple's hospital gown at the shoulder, the librarian changed her mind, "Actually, could you give us a minute?"

Mr. Gold was a private man, and so was Rumplestiltskin. Regardless of whether or not his heart was currently a blank page, there was no doubt that he would not want himself left vulnerable to the prying eyes of others. She swallowed. _And it seems that he already has been._

Alone—but for the immobile body of David Nolan—the brunette carefully peeled back the front of the gown, exposing Rumplestiltskin's chest to the cool, air-conditioned hospital room. She didn't know when her hand had flown to her mouth, but she did hear a gasping sound, and realised belatedly that she must have made it.

She closed her eyes, but forced them open again almost immediately. _A glamour_. Of course he'd used a glamour to hide the extent of his suffering from her. Leaving Storybrooke would have uncloaked any magically hidden blemishes, and now having the darkness pulled from him had done the same. _Oh, Rumple . . ._

One or two scars she recognised; after all, one did not survive three hundred years without picking up a few souvenirs—as he'd once put it to her. _Nor indeed an existence as the town pariah._ _But this?_ Her stomach churned briefly yet she didn't look away.

The scars were all different; some short and deep, more like large pockmarks or . . . or stab wounds, and others were long, tracing across from his shoulder to his sternum, and down to his waistline. Or . . . beyond. _That_ much she didn't check—wouldn't check—here. They criss-crossed like a strange spider-web of white lines, though even now some were still pink and rubbery. It would have taken his own dagger to inflict such wounds, and Belle knew _just_ whose hand the kris blade would have been in.

 _How could_ anyone _be such a monster?_

As she bent to fasten the gown, it was, rather ironically, the sight of a small, unblemished patch of skin on Rumplestiltskin's neck that made Belle freeze. Once, a seemingly insignificant little cut had resided there: a short, shallow gash that she remembered all too well. The librarian reached out a trembling hand—and his unshaven throat felt raw and warm under her fingers. _I . . . I could be._

It had been a fake dagger, and it seemed that the wound had fully healed since. But fragments of their conversation still lingered in the back of her mind. _"All I managed to do was abuse the dagger and take advantage of you, my True Love. I-I don't even know if I deserve to be with you anymore." "No, no, no—you were only doing what you thought was right."_ How easily the exchange could be reversed: their lines swapped. _I had just a taste of dark magic whispering in my ear, and I—_

The librarian could hear Doctor Whale approach, and she resurfaced from her thoughts with a sharp intake of air.

"How often . . . how often has he been bathed here?" she hated that her voice shook. _I was here for three days. How did I not know? Unless . . ._

Initially, the hospital staff had all assumed that the preservation spell would do just that—preserve him. But, on the evening that she'd finally left for the library, she'd been informed differently; it seemed that the casting of the stasis incantation was more focused on keeping him alive than on stilling the natural functions of the body. Any extra effects had faded further with each hour. But she could hardly fault the Apprentice for such prioritisation.

Whale gave a noncommittal murmur, but when he saw her determined stare he weakened, "Every other day the nurses do a sponge bath round for patients who are unable to clean themselves."

Belle choked back the emotion in her voice, and answered roughly, "From now on, I will do that duty. Every day," she promised, looking back at the lined face of her love. She barely noticed Whale nodding in consent, and leaving the room. But the promise hadn't been to him.

* * *

Having conjured a broom into the startled noblewoman's hands—the further to extend his insincere welcome—Rumplestiltskin had left a trembling Belle in the Great Hall, and sought out the solitude of his tower, with the spectral prince following close behind him.

 _I've been in here before,_ Charming mused, _or at least in a similar room_. He span round to take in the bookshelves, the alchemy tables and the glass cabinets, as the imp muttered to himself about barricading the West Wing.

 _ **Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it could do much worse to an overly-inquisitive maid.**_

David stooped to stare at a vial of gently bubbling blue liquid, which seemed to be producing an acrid smell. _Last time I came here, Snow didn't believe in her own ability to lead. It took a fake sword to change her mind._ He glanced back, in time to see Rumplestiltskin approaching a table, his gaze locked on a thick black journal.

His clawed fingers flicked through musty pages, filled with dates and concise descriptions of events, all written in his own neat hand. Some were carefully struck through, with a second date later inscribed. And not one of them referred to an impetuous young woman who told herself stories in the dungeons of the Dark Castle.

 _ **Perhaps a little scrying . . .**_

It would do well to check on the pieces currently falling into place. And if he happened to See his new maid, well then—surely the potential fates of the girl would be a useful tool for frightening her. Judging by her foolishly brave demeanour, at least one thread in her future tapestry would lead to a messy end.

 _ **Maybe even at my own hand.**_

He giggled a little, but it fell flat. Somehow, the idea didn't hold as much appeal as he'd expected.

The former shepherd watched carefully as, under the large window, Rumplestiltskin leant back against the stone ledge of the wall. He'd long since learnt that standing and Seeing didn't mix well, and as a sheriff David could understand the logic. _There's a reason why we sit people down before we give them the bad news._ He crossed his arms, curious as to exactly what 'scrying' would involve. _Mirrors? Magic?_

Spreading his hands above his head, the imp closed his eyes and focused his mind. David opened his mouth to speak, but before he could muster a word his own vision dimmed, and he staggered, casting out a flailing hand to the tower wall. A moment of pure darkness, and then, slowly, images bloomed into light. He felt his breath tear away in awe, as the Dark One grunted with concentration. _How the hell will I describe this to Snow? Describe the impossible?_

A vibrant kaleidoscope of colour—countless images moving all at once, like the reflection in a beetle's eye, or the pieces of a patchwork quilt drawing together. It was too much to take in—impossible to concentrate until suddenly the imp's fingers twitched and the colour dimmed, taking the brightness with it. Only a few pieces in the vast unfathomable puzzle remained alight.

Rumplestiltskin pulled them closer with his mind, and David could feel the sensation—as if the imp was tugging at pieces of rope, the weight at their ends surprisingly heavy. Four images. The sorcerer raised his left hand, hovering over the first as it played out. Unable to shake the strange intrusion of the pictures in his mind's eye, the prince watched in fascination.

The perspective was from the first person. Somebody was watching as a dark-haired woman stood above them, red lips pursed and cold fire in her eyes as she raised a jagged blade high into the air. _The dagger?_ David squinted. The edges of the vision were blurred slightly, features familiar yet hard to discern.

 _ **No matter.**_

With an impatient gesture the image was cast away, flung back into the darkness as Rumplestiltskin's mouth turned down into a grimace. That particular vision he'd Seen before, soon after her first betrayal, and several times since. It had haunted him doggedly. But he would not allow it to shake him this time.

 _ **My ending may not be a happy one, but all that matters is what comes before it.**_

His right hand reached out, skimming over the second image as Charming waited in confused silence. There was a lurch as the perspective jolted forward, and when the vision moved it seemed strangely distorted. _A reflection in water_ , David realised, as a young boy's face came into view. The child had deep brown eyes, which pooled with tears as another face appeared in the frame. Not a human face. The sheepdog leaned into the boy, licking at his tear-streaked cheeks. The lad's rough-spun clothes were covered in little clumps of sheep's wool. _A shepherd boy_. _Like me._ David smiled, his heart warming for the child, who buried his face in the soft fur even as the moving water disfigured his appearance. Rumplestiltskin snarled and the image stuttered and grew dark.

 _ **The past is of little use. It's the future I require.**_

 _Perhaps that's Neal,_ David mused. Those brown eyes certainly seemed familiar—reminded him of Henry. A blackened fingernail twitched, and the third image drew even closer. With a start, David recognised himself, running through a mountainous landscape. _Wait a minute. Have we even met yet, Gold?_

 _ **Ah. Prince**_ **Charming** _ **!**_

David flinched at the high-pitched squeak, the derisive emphasis Rumplestiltskin always used for Snow's term of endearment. _He mocks my name even in his own head?_ The taller man squared his shoulders with a sigh. _Why doesn't that surprise me?_ He watched with a strange captivation as his past self—who, it seemed, was his future self here—leapt over a rock, only for it to morph into a fallen tree as his surroundings gave way to woodland.

 _ **Regina.**_

 _The infinite forest._ The former shepherd could sense the imp's intense concentration, could feel the draining of energy as he peered into days to come. When the baffled prince hit the ground the image faded.

 _ **I will find him there.**_

 _Well, I can tell you what happens next. I run in circles. And you wait until my fourth lap before you give me aid._ His eyes unseeing, still filled only with the vision within the imp's mind, David shifted his weight uneasily, recalling what came after the subsequent swordplay: his own incredulous questioning of the sorcerer. _"What do_ you _know of True Love?" "Well not so much as you, perhaps_ — _but not so little as you might think."_

He felt a twinge of regret for his presumptuous words, and for the fleeting glimmer of hurt in the reptilian eyes. _"You? You loved someone?" "It was . . . a brief flicker of light amidst an ocean of darkness."_ The facade of indifference from the imp, and his own hesitation. _"What happened?"_

" _. . . She died."_

He shivered. _Well, I guess I get to . . . to see the flickering of the light, at least. Here._

 _ **The ring, perhaps.**_

Finally, Rumplestiltskin moved his hand toward the last image. It sputtered and brightened, but the view it presented was hard to make out—stained glass windows shattering, the shadows of a large crowd, hands reaching through the broken panes. _A church, perhaps,_ David guessed, but the imp was already banishing the image, his actions strangely listless.

 _ **It is enough.**_

The Dark One hesitated, his physical body still unseeing. He'd Seen what he'd intended; another piece of the upcoming romance between James' twin and Eva's daughter, though he needed to calculate how the fragment would fit with the others, and whether it would even reach realisation. So many segments of the puzzle ended up discarded: the what-could-have-beens, negated by just one altered word, a single unpredictable action. By not quite fitting, in the end. Yet, despite successfully scrying out one of his pawns, he didn't feel quite satisfied.

 _ **I can See the futures of many—watch their weaknesses, their fears, their desires play out before me.**_

 _He's trying to_ _ **—**_ _what? Reassure himself?_

David reached out blindly into the darkness, pushing himself away from the tower wall, his own thoughts returning to the conversation from the woods—to a confession of lost love that Rumplestiltskin was yet to make. And to Belle's own, more recent admission, at her husband's bedside. The prince cleared his throat, feeling a little odd for talking into the nothingness; though perhaps it was no stranger than talking to people who could not see him back.

"True Love, it . . . it isn't easy, Gold, if that's what you do have." David felt himself smiling slightly, more than aware of the sardonic response he'd get if the pawnbroker _could_ hear him, "But it must be fought for."

Succumbing to an odd whim, the imp searched again. This time specifically for a certain brunette. He didn't care what happened to her, of course, but it couldn't hurt to know whether her heart gave out from scrubbing the castle's staircases, or from the damp in the kitchens. But every twitch of his fingers, every narrowing or widening of his Sight, every attempt to shift through the endless images—all of it drew a blank.

 _ **Well, deari**_ — **Belle.** _ **It seems . . .**_

As he waved a scaled hand—as the kaleidoscopic array of colours dissolved once more into nothingness—the biting female voice from before curled again in the imp's mind, latching onto his thoughts. But this time, it sounded almost mournful.

 _ **With you, for some reason, I have no idea.**_

"It matters not," Rumplestiltskin muttered at last, "She is hardly essential to my plans."

* * *

 **A.N. In case you didn't see my note on the previous post, many apologies for the delay with this chapter. Being away overseas and long work hours didn't help, but in all honesty I was struggling a fair bit with writer's block. Rest assured, I won't be abandoning SMAT any time soon (I'm enjoying writing it far too much), but if a chapter doesn't sit right with me I will keep changing it until I'm happy. I hope that after such an extended wait this wasn't too much of a let-down!**

 **So, as long as the characters do as I ask, in the next chapter we should be getting a Zelena** _ **-**_ **Belle confrontation, and over in the memory-realms something is stolen from the Dark Castle. Any guesses as to what? And who do you reckon will get the upper hand: the librarian or the witch?**

 **Please do review if you have time - and thanks so, so much for all the feedback so far - from both guests and account-holders! Huge thanks to Robin4 for reading this chapter first.**


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